


Take me and erase me

by OhAine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, Child Death, Dirty Talk, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Angst, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Knife Violence, Masturbation, Medical Trauma, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscarriage, Murder, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft is my Holmes boy, Oral Sex, PWP, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlolly - Freeform, Stillbirth, Torture, Violence, dancing- because Sherlock loves to dance, mentions of M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 63,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She stood and stared again at Sherlock, disbelieving.  She’d feared for his safety, of course she had, but had always deep down believed that he was untouchable, a magician that could evade harm through sleight of hand and tricks, or that guardian angels protected him, even if they were not of the heavenly variety"</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock had made a mistake and he knew it. What he didn't know was just how far reaching the consequences would be. </p><p>Sherlock takes a bullet. </p><p>Molly takes a trip.</p><p>Unrepentant Sherlolly. Prequel to "Saving for a rainy day", but can be read as a stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take me

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Saving for a rainy day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3867697) by [OhAine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine). 



> As always, I own nothing: Conan Doyle, Gatiss, Moffat, Cumberbatch's curls and the divine Miss B own most of it.
> 
> Un beta'd, (Unless you count Hubby proof reading, and then rushing out to have divorce papers prepared) so all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Title and lyrics taken from "Falling Slowly" by Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova.
> 
> Medical scenes are based in part on personal experience (don't worry - through illness, not torture) and supplemented with internet research, so you can assume inaccuracies abound. Tracking chips do exist, but are carcinogenic, so not widely used (I'm guessing Mycroft has access to all sorts of things that aren't commercially available!). Martin Freeman has learned to drive since THoB.
> 
> Tags/rating apply from the start and for future chapters.
> 
> Prologue is set a few days after the night described in "Saving for a rainy day"

_____________________

 

_“Falling slowly, eyes that know me, and I can't go back_

_Moods that take me and erase me, and I'm painted black_

_You have suffered enough, and warred with yourself_

_It's time that you won”_

 

_____________________

 

Prologue

_____________________

 

 

“Sherlock, where are we?” John was standing in the graveyard of a small country church, with absolutely no idea of what he was doing there, not a new experience for John; he was after all with Sherlock – so confusion, misdirection, secrecy and even outright lies should be expected, but his friend was being more than just evasive – at some point it occurred to John that his questions weren’t simply being ignored, but that Sherlock was _uncomfortable_ with the questions.  That was never good news.  That generally led to bombs, fake suicides or worse.

“Seriously Sherlock, where are we and what are we doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Oh, how John loved Sherlock’s condescending ‘ _why must I explain everything to you, oh feeble minded mortal_ ’ tone.

“Not to me it isn’t, and I’m not taking another step until you tell me what we’re doing here,” He sat down on a small granite bench, folded his arms over his chest, jutted out his determined chin, and for good measure sent his eyebrows racing toward his hairline, “I’m serious Sherlock, either you tell me what the hell we’re doing in, and pardon my French, the arsehole of nowhere, or I’m off. And I’m driving so you can bloody well walk back to Baker Street for all I care.”

“Don’t be so dramatic John," Sherlock said scrunching up his face, and with no trace of irony whatsoever, "we’re here now anyway.”

“Where’s here exactly?" John looked around as Sherlock approached to sit beside him on the bench.  Sherlock was right, he hated to admit it; he often saw but failed to observe.  Most of the headstones bore either the name Holmes or Vernet, “Is this…? Are these people related to you?”

“Excellent John, well done!” another one of Sherlock’s tones, this time _‘praise the imbecilic child to reinforce desired behaviour’_ , the urge to punch him was starting to overwhelm John. It must have been clearly written across his face too, because Sherlock finally relented and decided to explain himself. 

"Where we are John, is my family home, and this," gesturing  in a circular motion around them, "is the estate chapel."

"No. No, I've been to your parent's house-" John shook his head. 

"Where they live now you mean." Sherlock pointed across the fields to a large house  in the near distance, "That is where I grew up.  My parents retired to the cottage when the upkeep of the main house got to be too much for them. Mycroft lives there now."

"So you wanted me to see where you grew up? Is that what...?" he trailed off not sure what he was trying to ask.

"No. I wanted you to see something here, something very important to me." John turned to look at him; Sherlock's whole demeanour had changed - all of his earlier levity, his teasing expression had gone and something dark and heavy had settled over him, his eyes had turned to storm clouds and his tone was suddenly serious - he was watching John's face intently and seemed to be choosing his words carefully now, that alone was enough to make John feel uneasy.

“I don’t understand…?” John looked around confused, was there something he was meant to have noticed? something he was missing?  No. Nothing out of place, nothing unusual. Until, until... one headstone, the one beside the bench they were now sitting on.  It was different from the rest, more recent for a start, the others were ancient, and the name was unusual ‘John’ – the others were all Sherrinford's and Sigerson’s or something equally weird and _not normal_ , and the date was… Oh God, the date was just...

“Sherlock” John gasped. He stood and walked slowly to the headstone his eyes had settled on, “Sherlock, what am I looking at?” he suddenly felt nauseous, it couldn’t be, and the date, that was when…

Sherlock drew a deep breath bracing himself, "John, there’s something I should have told you, about the time I spent away from London. There's something you should know about me. And Molly. And…” he wasn’t sure that he could do this now that the moment was here, he’d kept the secret for so long, he didn’t know if he could say the words out loud. He looked up to meet John's gaze.

“And John Mycroft Holmes” John said shocked and barely audible, the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up now. 

“Yes," Sherlock said, letting out the breath he didn't realise he was still holding, there was emotion tight in his voice, "my son.”

John swallowed. "Jesus, Sherlock," he hesitated, not sure what to do or say, then returned to the bench and rested his hand on his friend's shoulder and said gently, "tell me."

 

 

_____________________

 

Take me

_____________________

 

 

_Four years earlier..._

 

 

Giancarlo DiPandi had been born into a privileged world.  The only child of wealthy parents, he had been given every luxury they could afford, including the finest private education which in turn, gained him entry to the best pre-med programs in the country.  A glittering college career had been followed by a promising residency at one of Europe’s finest hospitals.  But his sure to be illustrious future was brought to an scandalous end when he was discovered in the act of rape with an unconscious patient. He had been convicted and lost his medical licence, sent to prison and disowned by his once doting parents.  His perceived injustice of it all had weighed on him heavily.

The first days had been difficult.  Sex offenders were, to put it mildly, not well liked in prison and he was beaten to a pulp on an almost daily basis; and just when he had given up all hope, he made a valuable ally.  It seemed that sucking the cock of an inmate who just happened to be a leading light of an important crime family would be his redemption.  It also seemed that in his life after prison, practicing medicine without a licence and with a rape conviction wouldn’t really be a problem after all – it turned out that it really only mattered who you were practicing for.  

After his release, Giancarlo was once again a happy man - he had found a career that would ensure he got everything that he so richly deserved.

He’d been idling away his morning with cocaine and prostitutes, just a typical Monday, when the call came that his services would be required by his new employers. Within minutes a sleek blacked out Maserati Ghibli had arrived outside his door to take him to today’s assignment at a house twenty minutes outside of Rome.

“What is it today?” he asked the man who greeted him upon arrival.

“The boss is doing a favour for one of the Russians, needs you to look someone over before they take him to his final destination.  You’ll need this.”

DiPandi was handed a small hand held scanner, the type vets used on chipped pets.

“It’s an animal?” he asked confused.

His question was greeted with a feral grin, “Sort of” came the reply, “he’s got a tracking chip in him somewhere, they don’t want anybody to be able to locate him ‘til they’re done with him, find it and cut it out without killing him.”

“Shit,” DiPandi said searching through his bag, “I don’t have anaesthetic or a suture kit.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” came the cheerful reply “he’s got worse than this ahead of him today.” 

 

_____________________

 

He was willing to admit he had made a mistake. Wait. No. Delete. To say he acknowledged the mistake willingly was inaccurate. He was _obliged_ to admit he had made a mistake. Yes, that was a much more accurate descriptor. It was a consolation, somewhat, that he was likely only ever going to have to admit that to himself. He didn’t often get it wrong, but oh, when he did, he got it _spectacularly_ wrong.  Whether by chance or design they had used his one blind spot to his disadvantage, and managed to get him to practically deliver himself into their hands. Stupid. _Stupid,_ he berated himself; he really should have taken some time over the years to hone his instinct for self-preservation.

Perhaps he’d been too obvious in the past.  The Irene Adler affair was sure to have been known by Moriarty’s circle, but still, they couldn’t have known for sure - before Irene even Mycroft hadn’t figured it out for Christ’s sake.  So chance was looking more likely than design. Either way, he’d failed to draw the proper conclusions, make the correct deductions because he found himself in the power of a beautiful woman, the current that sparked through his brain short circuited by a gentle touch and burgeoning arousal; she had led him like a lamb to the slaughter and he was now in the hands of some very dangerous people. He'd always had a weakness, a chink in his armour when it came to the needs of his body, he began to wonder - not for the first time - if cocaine was the least dangerous of his failings. He closed his eyes. Predictable. Stupid. Dull.

The room where he now found himself was bright; white walls, white ceiling, white floor, and a spot light that shone straight at his eyes, leaving him disorientated – a lab maybe, possibly a cold storage unit -  the latter was more likely given the temperature; the room was unbearably cold, and God, how Sherlock hated to be cold.  His guess, a good one too, was that they were trying to induce mild hypothermia to make him docile.  It was an effective means of sedation; he felt dizzy, his thought process was slowing and he longed to sleep. They could have used drugs to the same effect, but that would have lessened his sensitivity to pain, and the people who now held him definitely wanted him to feel pain.  He had been moved outside of the city, he was sure; he’d only been semi-conscious after the earlier impromptu surgery and subsequent beating, but alert enough to notice the unmistakable sounds of an urban environment giving way to a rural one. Not an isolated location though – he was after all in and industrial building – so there was still the chance, albeit a small one, that someone would have noticed the activity and reported it – he thought about this for a moment and then decided that the data was irrelevant - he didn’t think he’d live long enough to find out for sure. 

The one positive to the freezing room where he now sat was that the cold was slowing the bleeding from his abdomen, where earlier a snivelling little rat with a knife had cut out the tracking chip that Mycroft had insisted be inserted before he left London, the wound wasn’t life threateningly deep but it reopened and bled every time Sherlock moved in his chair.  Despite the pain that throbbed with every heart beat Sherlock smiled to himself relishing the memory of the look of surprise on, _what had they called the dead man?_ Sherlock tried to remember, _was it Giancarlo?_ Yes, Giancarlo’s face when he managed to pull out of his restraints and stab his tormentor through the side of the head with his own knife. 

A voice came from somewhere behind the spotlight, “You look pleased with yourself Mr. Holmes, something you’d like to share with me?”

“Just reliving a particularly pleasant memory” he smirked.

The man revealed himself from behind the light and Sherlock looked at him, eyes darting over every detail his appearance betrayed; unmarried – no divorced he’d had an affair, a history of substance abuse – alcohol most likely but not in isolation – narcotics too then – under the influence right now in fact, muscular, ex-military, likely dishonourable discharge, thug for hire now, speciality in torture probable. Definitely working for Nemchinov.

“So glad you’re in a good mood Mr Holmes, it’ll make it even more fun for me when I get to wipe the smile from your face.” The man tapped a baseball bat off the back of the chair Sherlock was strapped to, “Comfortable are you?”

“Yes thank you, very.”

The man examined the contact points where Sherlock was bound to the chair; ankles, wrists, chest and hips, the leather straps were digging into his naked skin, already leaving open sores where there had been friction.

“Good and tight I see, we weren’t going to make the same mistake twice,” He ran his fingers around the edges of the restraints digging his filthy finger nails into the raw and weeping skin beneath, “but I see your incision has stopped bleeding,” he shoved his fingers into the wound and twisted - Sherlock drew in a sharp breath as he began to bleed profusely again, the throbbing pain almost unbearable, “there now,” Blackwood said smiling “that’s better.”

He walked behind Sherlock, out of his line of sight, and without warning swung the bat he’d been holding and made contact with the side of Sherlock’s head, knocking him sideways in his seat. There was a flood of metallic tasting liquid in his mouth and a spray of blood arced across the white floor like a grotesque Jackson Pollock, his ears were ringing and his vision whited out.

“So Mr Holmes, are you working for your big brother or freelancing?” he said walking around to face Sherlock again.

Sherlock righted himself and spat a mouthful of blood at his attacker, who looked down at where it landed on his shoes and laughed. 

“You know you’re only valuable to us if you talk. If you plan on staying quiet I might as well kill you now and get it over with.”

He was starting to struggle now, cognitive function was impaired and his body was experiencing the physiological effects of the stress it was under, his speech not coming as clearly as he'd hoped, and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth, “Getting me to talk isn’t your primary objective and you're going to kill me anyway, any information I give you is just a bonus; you’re working for Nemchinov, who I’m guessing is still a bit unhappy that I killed his brother about two weeks ago. So, this little scene that you're playing out here is more about revenge and theatrics than actually obtaining intelligence.”

“You’re quite right Mr. Holmes.  Our mutual friend is watching this on a live feed,” he said using the bloodied bat to point to a camera on the ceiling which was aimed directly at Sherlock; Blackwood swung again, this time a blow to the ribs, Sherlock groaned - there was a definite crack and then pressure on his lungs - a thick and wet sensation when he drew painful breaths, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun trying to get you to talk.”  He walked to a table behind the light where Sherlock couldn’t see and returned with a battery like device in one hand and electrodes in the other, “My employer,” he knelt before Sherlock and began attaching the electrodes to his fingers and toes, “would very much like to know how you managed to find his brother in the first place.  And by the time we’ve gotten that out of you,” he said switching on the current for a few seconds causing Sherlock’s body to convulse, “you’ll be relieved to see me pulling out the gun that will put an end to you.”

 

_____________________  

  

 

Nemchinov had been enjoying the now eight hours long show that Colonel Blackwood had been putting on for him. It had been satisfying – even enjoyable - for the most part, but things had been getting boring for the last thirty minutes or so.  Holmes had lost consciousness and by the looks of things wasn’t coming back; Blackwood had spent the day doling out beatings and shocks, and when Holmes had passed out, which he was doing now with greater frequency and for longer periods, he’d wait for him to come around before beginning the cycle of abuse again. But when Nemchinov’s phone rang he knew without looking it would be Blackwood.

“I think he’s down for good this time, what do you reckon, keep going or put a bullet in him?”

“Shoot the fucker, but leave him there – I want him found.  Let’s call it a message to his brother; nobody, _fucking nobody_ ,” he spat, “messes in my business or with my family.”

“It’ll be my pleasure.” Blackwood hung up with a smile on his face.

Nemchinov watched Blackwood draw his gun, point it at the man lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor, and shoot. He then switched off the feed. 

For the first time since his brother’s body had been found he felt at peace.

 

 


	2. Erase me

_____________________

 

To the untrained eye The Diogenes Club was, by deliberate design, an innocuous but handsome building on a street that contained many innocuous but handsome buildings – it was also considered by outsiders to be a relic of a bygone era, not least of all because women were not usually permitted entry. However to those with a greater capacity for observation and with a little knowledge of the machinations of the British government, it was unmistakably a sub-bureau of Her Majesty’s secret service. Deals were done and alliances forged in the club’s mahogany panelled private rooms; the real work of running the country – the housekeeping – was done here.

At its centre was Mycroft Holmes, who was regarded by those who understood how these things worked as the most indispensable man in Britain. Mr. _M._ Holmes thought of himself as the conductor of an orchestra; political rumours, intelligence and stolen secrets channelled their way through him and were diverted to the appropriate interested parties.  Some thought of him as a Machiavellian prince, a puppet master; he found that he didn’t entirely disagree with the analogy.

But the private rooms of the club were also a haven for Mycroft, whose misanthropic streak and general love of solitude necessitated a place where he could be alone with his thoughts and allow the enforced silence to sooth his finely tuned but racing mind.

The club would offer no such sanctuary today.

At the end of the day’s meetings and with a glass of Camus XO in hand, running his wet fingertip around the rim of the ancient crystal until it sang in a middle C, he sat calmly ordering his thoughts when his reflections were disturbed by an unusual sound and to those with the heightened antennae for danger that was a prerequisite for anyone who, shall we say, occupied a minor position in the British government, a frightening one. Mycroft lifted his head, surprised to hear the click of high heels on the tiled floor of the hall outside of his private room at the club – he recognised the gait of the woman now approaching and was immediately on alert; she had never come to his club before – never – something was seriously wrong.

He was already on his feet when the footsteps stopped and she knocked at the door, opening it without waiting for permission to enter.

“What’s happened?” he said, lifting his briefcase and walking towards the door.

“There’s been some unusual activity on your brother’s tracking device Sir.”

His blood ran cold, his skin visibly paled. _What has the stupid boy done now_ , he thought, panic seizing him.

He took her elbow and guided her out of the club. “Tell me, keep talking” he said a few moments later as he slid into the waiting car which sped away into the London traffic before the doors had even slammed shut; late summer showers making the usually busy streets chaotic.

“His signal hadn’t moved for the last fifteen hours, so I ran the co-ordinates to get an address. I’ve alerted our people locally - they’re on their way there now to investigate,” she hesitated then turned to him, “Sir, the address - it’s a morgue.”

He felt suddenly weak, he was glad he was sitting down.  “I-I’ll need to…”

“Already arranged Sir, we’re on our way to the airfield now.”

"Good." and then as an after thought, " Thank you." He stared, transfixed by the rivulets of rain running down the car's window pane like tears.

 

_____________________

 

The flight passed in almost a dream like state and Mycroft sat looking out of the tiny window at the late evening vanilla sky with fingers steepled before his face, now weighing up the only certain facts he had.  Information had begun to slowly filter in throughout the flight, he now knew that the tracking chip he had insisted be implanted in Sherlock’s abdomen three months ago had been found pushed into the head wound of a known associate of the Ricoletti crime family – a convicted rapist who had shuffled off his mortal coil around forty eight hours ago according to the post-mortem report. A note pinned to the corpse’s clothing read _'Ognuno di noi piangerá per nostro fratello'_ roughly translated as ‘We will each mourn our brother’, the Polizia hadn’t been able to make sense of this save for the assumption that this was a warning of some sort.  They were right of course.  The Ricoletti family were known allies of Viktor Nemchinov, whose brother Sergei had been pulled out of the Tiber fourteen days ago, and, given the ballistics information to hand, had likely been killed using Sherlock’s weapon. _That,_ Mycroft thought, angry at his brother, _had been infinitely careless of him._

Extrapolation of the facts led to only two possible conclusions, both likely to be an act of retaliation for Nemchinov’s brother’s death:

One - Sherlock had been taken to Nemchinov, who, intelligence reports confirmed, was still in Russia; meaning the now forty eight hour old trail would be cold and growing more so every hour – this scenario left open the slim possibility that there was a deal to be done for Sherlock’s life.  Or two, and the likelier scenario, Nemchinov, unwilling to risk a cross border movement of a man monitored by intelligence agencies across Europe, had simply had Sherlock executed in Italy, where his allies could provide the necessary personnel and facilities - in which case Sherlock had most likely been dead for two days before Mycroft even knew he was missing.

He knew that something like this was a possibility; Sherlock had spent his whole adult life haring off on one dangerous escapade or another, had absolutely no sense of self preservation and was, after all, now engaged in a mission to dismantle a dangerous criminal network – made more volatile by the absence of Moriarty, who had ruled effectively using fear and manipulation, with those left behind vying for his throne.  But Sherlock was supposed to leave the wet work itself to Mycroft’s people.  What the _hell_ had he been playing at making an enemy of Nemchinov?

“Sir?”  a gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder, disturbing his thoughts.

“Yes, go on.”

“Field agents have passed on information about a video feed that was transmitted to Nemchinov’s home from an IP address traced to a village about thirty miles outside of the city, our local people are already on their way there.”

“What’s their ETA?”

“Any minute now Sir.  Our pilot has just confirmed we’re on time.  I have a helicopter already on standby; we can be there in less than fifteen minutes.”

He ran his hands across his face and through his hair, this was not good news, if they’d been able to trace the feed so easily it was only because Nemchinov wanted them to be able to; Conclusion – no fear of discovery, whatever was there Nemchinov wanted them to find it.  The day felt long, endless, even though it had been less than three hours since he left the club, and as he returned his gaze to the horizon a realisation washed over him that by the time his plane landed his whole world may have changed irrevocably.  Mycroft’s ears began to ring, and something behind his eyes was causing spots to appear in his vision; he lied to himself that it was because of the change in cabin pressure as the plane began its descent.

 

_____________________

 

Molly Hooper was having what, for a pathologist, passed for a pleasant day at work.  Yesterday, her list had included two teenage crash victims and a gangland stabbing; not only horrific injuries but a preventable waste of very young lives. It always made her sad to think of the lost potential – _the good not done, the love not given, time torn off unused_. But today she looked down at the remains before her and smiled.  Mr Hicks had died in his sleep with his wife by his side, aged 93 and had no known chronic medical conditions; hale and hearty to the last – no pain, no suffering, and a full life well lived and well loved - the autopsy only necessary because he had not been under medical supervision in the twenty four hours prior to his death.  Some distant part of her that she didn’t wish to acknowledge wondered if she’d be that lucky when her time came, to have someone to love, someone in whose bed she slept.

She took a few deep breaths and stretched out her shoulders and back, then placed a gentle hand on the centre of her patient’s chest and whispered to him, “I promise I’ll take good care of you, you won't feel a thing."

Switching on the recorder to begin the notes that would later be transcribed, and pulling down her mask to cover her face she made the Y incision extending from the shoulder joints to the chest and then running the stem to the pubic region. She’d begun the in situ examination of internal organs before extraction when she heard someone entering the room, giving a cursory glance over her shoulder to see who it was.

She froze, her narrative stopped mid word.

Molly could spot one of Mycroft _sodding_ Holmes’ people a mile off – she’d spent enough time being abducted from the streets of London over the years to have developed a sixth sense about it, but this was unusual – she hadn’t seen or heard from a Holmes in three months, not since the day she laid out the fake ‘Sherlock’ for the funeral.  It had been longer still before that since she’d been _invited_ to join one of them on a car journey to some invariably isolated spot, and in truth, she hadn’t been feeling remotely nostalgic for the experience.

She switched off the recorder and turned to the man standing in an at-ease position behind her. Her heart was beginning to pound.  Oh God, something was wrong, had to be. Something to do with Sherlock – what the hell else would Mycroft want with her?

“Dr Molly Hooper?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Holmes requires your assistance.”

She stood frozen to the spot, blinking.

“Urgently, Dr Hooper.”

“Y-Yes, yes of course,” not sure which way to turn she’d begun to almost spin on the spot, “just, um, I need to – Mr. Hicks, I need to…um,” she forced herself to move, peeling off her mask and gloves. When finally she could get forward momentum, she began to run.

 

_____________________

 

Mycroft lurched awake, confused for a brief moment.  He hadn’t slept in twenty four hours, not since first arriving in Rome, and attempting to do so last night in the room adjoining Sherlock’s had proved to be an exercise in futility. Too bright rooms, unfamiliar smells, the beeping of monitors and the hiss of the ventilator caused him to be too aware of his surroundings and his unconscionable situation. He had fallen into a micro sleep; he was exhausted and his body wanted to rest, but he was also adrenalin filled; every time his body tried to shut down, to sleep, his mind jerked awake suddenly with the sensation of grasping for the details of something that he knew he needed to remember but couldn’t quite recall.The chair in which he now sat by his brother’s bedside could only be generously described as uncomfortable.  His already tense back, neck and limbs ached from the strain of holding a sitting position for such a prolonged period of time.  His legs and arms felt giddy, desperate for movement.  The volume of caffeine in his system wasn’t helping his restlessness. He hadn't eaten since London, the food they'd brought to him from a Ristorante he loved when he holidayed here some years ago - his assistant's doing no doubt - remaining untouched, his insides felt as though they might disintegrate if he tried. It occurred to him that Sherlock would find his lack of appetite amusing.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the guard rail that surrounded Sherlock’s bed and rested his head in his hands, staring down at his barely recognisable brother, trying to catalogue every detail, commit it to memory before it might be lost to him for ever.  It was an unspoken truth of which both brothers were aware; Sherlock was the beating heart and the centre of Mycroft’s world.  At age seven he was charged by their mother with an onerous duty; in a hospital room not unlike the one he now found himself in, she had placed a tiny squalling, pink skinned bundle into his arms and informed him of his responsibilities as a big brother, Mummy told him that Sherlock was his to care for, his to love, and _oh_ how Mycroft loved him. Sherlock was everything that Mycroft could never be; he possessed the soul of a philosopher, a polymath whose brilliance shone as brightly as the sun, an incurable romantic who had an insatiable desire for adventure, who loved intensely in a way that was terrifying to everyone around him, and even to Sherlock himself who was so ill equipped to deal with the humours and passions that so often over took him - even as a child he had been a wild and untamed creature, glorious and destructive in equal measure. Those facets of Sherlock’s shockingly fragile spirit had always frightened Mycroft, whose instinct to protect his baby brother had always been a base one. The last time he had sat sentry by Sherlock’s bed side was almost a decade ago during the lowest point of his addiction but even that had never been as laden with potential for loss as this.  Somewhere in his distant memory he heard himself speak, ‘ _all lives end, all hearts are broken_ _’…_ and suddenly realised that he had no comprehension of what those words really meant until now.

Always polar opposites yet possessing the same kind of uniqueness - there were precisely two of them in the world, no one else, _no one_ , existed like them; Sherlock’s loss would leave Mycroft completely alone.  Anger, grief and loneliness twisted in his gut, a feeling so vast he could barely breathe.

The first report from the scene where Sherlock was found had come just as Mycroft exited the plane from London.  A body had been located, likely Sherlock’s, forensic and clean up teams were already there. Mycroft had no memory of boarding the helicopter that was to take him to the abandoned industrial estate outside of Rome, but he must have done so because the next thing that he _could_ remember happening was the second report coming through which indicated that the man they had found was still in fact breathing, clinging to life tenuously.  The helicopter was re directed to the military medical facility where the gravely injured man was already on route to.  He felt relief wash over him; if this was Sherlock, at least he was alive. 

But any relief was short lived.  By the time Mycroft arrived at the base, the man had been already rushed to surgery to deal with what were surely catastrophic injuries.  Photographs were taken by a nurse in the operating theatre for Mycroft to look at, in the hopes that they would be able to either rule in or out whether this was in fact Sherlock, whether they still needed to be searching.  He had scanned the pictures of the man’s face looking for a recognisable feature, but nothing in those pictures bore any resemblance to his brother. The hair was shorter than when he had last seen him, but it was curly, although that may have been because it was matted with blood.  The man was Sherlock’s height but had more muscle; darkening bruises meant that he couldn’t distinguish marks or pre-existing scars.  The eyes and mouth were swollen so badly that he just couldn’t know for sure, until, until…he came to a picture of the hands - the calluses from years of playing the violin, long slender fingers that were an exact likeness of their father’s, this was Sherlock. _This was Sherlock._   He looked again at the photos of the face; this bloodied, broken, mangled creature was his brother.  Mycroft was struggling to suppress the urge to scream, to put his fist through the wall.  His depth of feeling, his fear had been shocking to him. He knew at once that his wrath, his retribution, would be immense. Those responsible would be disappeared from the earth.

He listened, depleted, numb, to the briefing by Sherlock’s surgeons later that day informing him that the head injuries, and therefore possible brain injuries, were relatively minor; a detached retina had been repaired in surgery and blood flow to the eye was normal, a ruptured eardrum that would heal given time, a broken but not dislocated nose, lacerations and minor burns that would be dealt with by a cosmetic surgeon as soon as it was feasible to do so, swelling of the brain had been relieved by surgical means and subsequent EEG’s had been promising.  Blackwood, and Mycroft now knew that it was in fact Blackwood from both his trademark unsophisticated methods and local intelligence reports, had wanted to keep Sherlock conscious and cognisant – aware of what was happening to him, and perhaps Blackwood was also attempting to extract information from him. Quite likely in fact.  Sherlock had suffered very few blows directly to the head; his body though was a different matter and internal bleeding had caused organs to be on the cusp of failure, compounded by a penetrating high velocity bullet wound to the back which had the potential to cause serious problems.  The bullet had passed near the spine, and the resulting transfer of kinetic energy could have resulted in a serious injury to the cord or nerves - the extent of the damage could not yet be determined; the patient would need to be conscious before that could be assessed, but Sherlock hadn’t regained consciousness, and most likely hadn’t been conscious for almost seventy two hours.  The words ‘ _the first 24 hours_ _…’_ played in Mycroft’s mind on a loop. It had been three times as long now. 

The blood loss from the bullet wound and internal injuries, the fact that he was now intubated – necessitating sedation - and unable to breathe on his own, the length of time his injuries had gone untreated, all coalesced into a perfect storm.  Reaching out he gently settled a hand on Sherlock’s arm and bowed his head in prayer to a deity that he wasn’t sure existed _, protect him,_ _save him, please God let him live._ The skin under his hand was warm, Sherlock’s chest continued to rise and fall, he could see the carotid pulse beating in his neck - he tried to reconcile those facts with what the doctors had told him.  He found that he couldn’t, the disparity, _the consequence_ , was too great.  Images of Sherlock as a child, then as a young man flashed through his mind; always so vulnerable, always so fierce, a firework waiting for ignition. A life force as immense as this annihilated in such a way made no sense. 

He reached out to brush the curls from his little brother’s face and then held his hand in front of his swollen nose just to feel him breathe and said with a broken heart, “To die twice in one year would be careless, even for you Sherlock.”

 

_____________________

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote "The good not done, the love not given, time torn off unused" is taken from the Philip Larkin poem "Aubade"
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful commenter Cora who fixed the Italian translation for me. I have the best readers!!
> 
> I appreciate this chapter may have been heavy going and wordy, thanks for sticking with me :)


	3. Hear me

  

After three hours in the air Molly had an inkling that she wasn’t in Kansas anymore, so to speak.

She been ushered aboard a small plane at a private airfield outside of London, and had no clue where she was when it landed.  There was no point asking questions either; she’d been stone walled since Bart’s with the party line of “Mr. Holmes requires your assistance” given in response to every question.

Thinking about it now, she realised there was no paper trail, no one knew where she was, no passport check points, if Mycroft wanted to dispose of her, no one would ever know what had happened to her.  She was suddenly not so sure of Mycroft's reasons for needing her assistance. Her Mother had warned as a child never to get into a car with strangers; it occurred to her that maybe she had been on to something.

By the time she arrived at the entrance of what was definitely a military hospital, she was almost relieved to see a face she knew, even if it was one she’d usually try to escape from.  She had no clue what the woman’s name was - John called her Anthea, but Molly was fairly certain the woman had more than one name. Without lifting her eyes from her mobile she said, “This way Dr Hooper.”

Molly tried to make her small voice sound strong, and drawing herself up to her full five feet three inches said, “Do you mind telling me where I am and what I’m doing here?”

“Mr. Holmes requires your-.”

She cut her off, “My assistance, yes I got that, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

The woman just smiled at her then indicated she should follow, leading her through a maze of corridors into the depths of the building. Molly wondered how on Earth the woman managed to navigate the corridors in six inch heels, sashaying like a supermodel, while never once looking up from her phone.  _Oh wonderful!_ On top of everything else that was happening today, she now felt inadequate because she couldn’t text and walk at the same time.  While prancing like a Gazelle.  While looking flawless.  She rolled her eyes at herself.

She followed the Gazelle-slash-Supermodel down one corridor after another, until finally she’d had enough, “I want to speak to Mycroft Holmes. Now.” Molly gave a determined little nod, reaching the end of her patience with the cloak and dagger nonsense she’d been subjected to all day, her nerves stretched thin.

“Through here please.”

Molly halted, “I’m not moving another muscle until…” she stopped dead when her eyes followed to where the woman was gesturing.

Mycroft was sitting by a bed in what was the most advanced IC unit that Molly had ever seen.  The bed sat at the centre of the room and all equipment and monitors were suspended from the ceiling to allow 360 degree access, a wall mounted screen displayed a dashboard of the readouts from the last few hours and graphs of patient progress; but none of that peaked her professional curiosity which was immediately pushed aside.

Two things struck her almost simultaneously; the first was that Mycroft looked broken – his normally impeccable façade was in ruins; he was still perfectly groomed - a pressed suit and clean shaven, but the man himself looked distraught, she’d never actually seen his face display an emotion and yet now it was composed entirely of just that. The second was that the bedside he sat at was Sherlock’s – that took a few seconds longer to register because it didn’t look like Sherlock at all.

She looked again at the man in the bed, his hair, his lips, his hands, it couldn’t be, it just couldn’t be.  “Mycroft” she tried to say but the word wouldn’t come; she put her hand over her mouth reflexively to stifle the strangled noise that was trying to escape.

Oh God, it was him.

Her vision was momentarily fogged in grey and blood roared in her ears, she had a vague sensation of being outside of her own body, disconnected from her surroundings, a voice was coming from very far away, white noise.

“Dr Hooper, thank you for coming.” His eyes closed briefly in what could well have been relief to see her.

He stood on shaky legs to greet her but she wasn’t looking at him anymore, her whole world had narrowed to just one point. Walking in a trance to Sherlock she stood staring for a few seconds before her instincts, her training, kicked in; the beep of monitors drawing her attention to the dashboard where she started trying to make sense of what she saw. When the information finally permeated her mind she realised none of it was good.

Turning now to Mycroft, her blood running cold, “When?”

“Two to three days ago at best estimate.  We recovered him yesterday.”  His voice was husky from what could have been lack of use or emotion.

She stared again at Sherlock, disbelieving.  She’d feared for his safety, of course she had, but had always believed deep down that he was untouchable, a magician that could evade harm through sleight of hand and tricks, or that guardian angels protected him, even if they were not of the heavenly variety, she’d just assumed that he was protected by the ever present spectre of his brother’s people who were, at a guess, MI6 or something equally menacing.

“I can’t help Mycroft, this – trauma - isn’t my speciality, I – I…” her eyes stung and she tried to maintain control of herself but she couldn’t stop them, tears started to fall, “I can’t do anything to help him” she said in a trembling voice.  Mycroft walked to her and took her arm, leading her to the bedside chair, “No you can’t, not in a medical capacity at least.”

“I don’t understand.”

He looked at her the same way Sherlock did when he was explaining something that he thought he shouldn’t have to, “We two, Dr Hooper-”

“-are the only ones who know. That he’s alive.” She inwardly winced at her words; who knew how much longer they would be true.

“Yes. Our Mother and Father are aware of course that the incident in London was staged, but it would be untenable to put them through this, for them to see their child this way..." he paused choosing his words very carefully, “He has few friends, but I know the strength of his regard for you.  He should be with those who care for him, and for whom he cares.” Tension was written across his body, and the tender words seemed strange on his lips.

“He doesn’t – we are friends of course – but he doesn’t- ”

“Yet he trusted you, and you alone, with his life, did he not? I know my brother Dr Hooper, and I can assure you he holds you in great esteem.” He placed a hand on Sherlock's arm, his stiff upper lip faltering, “Irrespective of his regard for you, I believe your regard for him is justification enough for you to be at his side now. However, if you don’t wish to be here…”

She looked at Mycroft; he was ashen, clearly distraught, and there was no artifice in his actions or his words for once she was sure, but it was clear to Molly that there was something that he hadn’t said.  For all his attempted outward appearance of strength and independence he didn’t want to face this alone; and she knew that no one should have to.

“No-no of course I do, I just…” it was difficult to say because she so vehemently believed it to be true; acknowledging it hurt her, “I just don't think that Sherlock would want me here.”

Mycroft gave her a sad but genuine smile, “I can assure you, we both wish you to be here.”

 

* * *

 

 

The first days after her arrival seemed surreal; fear and sorrow, her constant companions, prickling beneath her skin.  Outside of the ICU the brilliant blue late summer skies, turned pink and orange then black studded with glittering stars and back to blue again; the world outside turning, existing with no reference to the black hole that seemed to exist within the four walls of Sherlock's room.  At times when she was alone with him, she took his hand and gently held it stroking his knuckles with her thumb and occasionally brushing her lips against his palm. By the end of the second day she had stopped waiting until they were alone, uncaring who saw her affection for him – she was petrified that every moment was her last with him and was too exhausted to hide it.

She hadn’t slept properly since leaving London; the occasional shallow half hours sleep here and there were almost worse that being awake – her subconscious mind produced images, false memories, of things that had never happened to her - of falling statues, shattering on the ground before her, of funerals for empty coffins, of faceless formless things surrounding her and Sherlock trying to reach for him, to pull him from her grasp.  She quickly came to the realisation that it was easier to just stay awake.

Mycroft was clearly devastated.  During that second night, they sat opposite each other silently, flanking Sherlock’s bed, each lost in their own thoughts and memories; the room almost in darkness save for the harsh glow of fluorescent light coming from the corridor outside. She'd never thought of the brothers as alike before and yet now it was obvious to her that they were so much the same. Mycroft looked strangely vulnerable to her, his suit jacket abandoned, his shirt sleeves rolled up - she would never have taken him for the sentimental type but he wore a watch that was clearly very old but not expensive, a family heirloom perhaps, and a wedding band on his right hand – his parents were alive so maybe it had belonged to a grandparent or an old lover, maybe he had been married once. When she looked up to his face she caught him  observing her, watching her touch his brothers hand, delicate fingers drawing ancient runes there - protection, love, strength.

"You care deeply for him Dr Hooper." A statement not a question.

"I think its ok for you to call me Molly now Mycroft, and yes, I do." What difference did it make now who knew.

"My brother is a singular man Dr Hooper, truly remarkable in so many ways, and yet matters of, shall we say, a more delicate nature, have always presented a challenge to him.  But that's not to say that he doesn't feel deeply, perhaps in many ways he feels more deeply because of this." He looked at her gauging her reaction, looking for signs of understanding.

"I know. I've seen the way he is with people he cares about." She unconsciously put her free hand on Sherlock's chest, over his heart.

"Tell me Dr Hooper, have you seen the way he cares for you?"

Molly tensed, turning her head questioningly toward him.

He continued, “The poet Lorca would say that to burn with desire in silence, in solitude, is the greatest punishment we can bring upon ourselves.”

"Mycroft, what are you trying to...?" She was too exhausted to talk in riddles.

"I'm trying to tell you Molly, that should we be granted our prayers, and my brother recovers, you choosing to end your own self-inflicted punishment may also in fact end his." He stood to walk toward the door but stilled half way there and with his back to her said, “With the resources of the entire British Government at my disposal don't you think I could easily have procured the body required for the deception that Sherlock and I perpetrated at St. Bartholomew's?" his head bowed and quarter turned, silhouetted against the light from the hall outside, "Your participation was entirely unnecessary, but Sherlock insisted upon it.  I believe he wanted you, and only you, to know he had not died.”

With those words he left her alone with his brother.

Molly watched him walk away, stunned.

 

* * *

 

On the fifth day she sat watching, waiting in limbo. She felt as though she were standing on a precipice, waiting for the inevitable fall. The near panic and shock of the first days had been lost to exhaustion and resignation. Sherlock had stabilised but there hadn’t been an improvement to speak of. Mycroft only occasionally slept and Eve, she now knew his assistant's real name, regularly brought what Molly thought might be intelligence reports; she caught fragments of conversations from the room adjoining Sherlock’s where she and Mycroft had been taking turns to rest.  She’d asked him of course what had happened, but his responses were vague, assuring her that it was safer for her not to know the details. She believed him.

But she was a doctor; she could read Sherlock's injuries the same way he could read a crime scene. It had been torture she was sure. She felt infinitely sad; he was in many ways so fragile, for this to have happened to him too was unthinkable.

Molly touched a finger to the paper thin and abused skin of Sherlock's hand and idly traced patterns against there, glancing at the dash board opposite the bed. 

No change.

Never change.

She blew out a breath and closed her eyes. The last time she had seen him in London he'd been a flurry of activity, all intensely burning fire and motion, glorious excitement vibrating through him, engrossed in the game he was playing with Jim. Like a moth she was drawn to his flame.  This, the possibly empty shell that lay before her - the ashy remnant, still Sherlock but simultaneously not, his brilliant light diminished - was an aberration. He'd be appalled by her open display of her affection for him, he'd recoil from her touch she was sure, at the very least he'd quirk an eyebrow and scoff at her sentiment. How much she would give for him to do that now.

She gazed at his beautiful lips stretched into a grimace around the intubation tubes, wishing that just once she had taken a chance and kissed him. She reached out and ran the back of her fingers across his face, his skin was warm and soft but so, so pale. She had never once in the last few days prayed for him to survive, she knew better; the deficits for someone with his injuries could be enormous and she knew he'd prefer death than that, so instead she prayed for peace, for comfort.

They had been gradually reducing the sedatives he was given to ease him through the first few days, meaning he should have been conscious by now. By all accounts, this had happened to him seven days ago - and she knew that meant that after today they would start to talk to Mycroft about withdrawing life sustaining measures. She'd been mourning him for days, but somehow today was different she knew one way or another her time with him was almost over. 

She hadn’t realised she still felt this way; she’d believed herself to be in love with him for years, and held dreams of him returning that affection for almost as long – no matter how much evidence there was to the contrary – but she thought that had passed, believing that she had come to love him in the way you love any friend. But some remnant of her heart that she somehow had managed to convince herself was no longer Sherlock’s was breaking.

There had been no mention since of the things Mycroft had said to her about her feelings for Sherlock, she was grateful for that; his words to her earlier that week had reopened healing wounds, dredging up so many feelings that she tried to deny she still harboured; he'd been wrong, _hadn't he?_ Sherlock had drawn an impenetrable border between them long ago. Except _...except..._ He had come to her for help, and when the next day he came to say goodbye he had kissed her - his lips grazing the corner of her mouth, tentative and gentle, lingering there perhaps a little too long.

She wanted to tell him how she felt. That he’d been loved. That his words to her on his last night in London – telling her that he needed her, had been enough. That no matter what, he’d live in her heart forever. That she would never, ever forget him. That she wished she'd been braver. And yet to say all of those things would be inadequate and too much at the same time.

The words of a song she had loved all her life came to mind, one she had thought of the day Sherlock left London, in a trembling voice she whispered them to him softly; there may never be another chance to tell him... to say something, _anything._

"You belong to me..." She said, her tiny voice sounding loud in the portentous silence.

Tears she'd been suppressing since her outburst on the first day breached the dam that had been holding them back; she wept for him, she wept for herself, and she wept for the loss of things that she could never now even pretend might one day exist. One after another they fell from her eyes and landed on the hand she was still holding.

 

* * *

 

 

_Dead or alive?_

_Insufficient evidence, dangerous to postulate._

He tried to open his eyes.

_Oh God that hurt._

He tried again. A small sliver of information filtered through to his brain from his optic nerves.

_Perhaps alive._

Impossibly bright room, unable to move his limbs, pain everywhere, and he was cold, so cold; he was still being held by Blackwood, who had done something to him while he was unconscious, because something was lodged in this throat and he was choking. He couldn't breathe, his instinct would have been to lay still and play dead, but it wouldn't be playing if he didn't get this thing, whatever it was, out of his throat quickly. 

_Hell._

He tried to move his fingers. Nothing. 

Something was dripping on his skin, wet; was he wounded? bleeding? He'd have to look, have to try again. He forced himself to open his eyes but couldn't make sense of what he saw - it looked like where he'd been held but a beautiful creature, surrounded by shimmering white light was holding his hand and whispering to him; she was weeping, her tears falling gently like soft summer rain on his hand, his skin tingled where the drops landed.

Oh _HELL_. Definitely dead then.

 

* * *

 

 

Molly blinked.

Did his fingers just twitch? No, he... No, it must be her mind playing tricks, her vision blurred and unreliable from tears.  But she felt it she was sure. 

Oh, OH, again, definite movement this time. Then...then...nothing.  She knew this sometimes happened, residual muscle memory and reflexes, twitches that meant nothing really. Still.

She pressed the call button.

"Doctor Hooper?" Mycroft seeing her movements, walked to her from the other room, “Molly?"

She was shaking, "He - he moved."

Mycroft stared at her, eyes wide, treacherous hope written across his face, "You're sure."

Was she sure? "Yes, I-I think so."

Just as the nurse arrived it happened again, and a definite choking sound was starting low in his chest.  He was fighting intubation. Her heart soared; this was good, this was very good. A whirlwind of activity around Sherlock's bed, doctors running now and Molly and Mycroft ushered from the room. She knew they'd be assessing whether to remove the tube that helped him breathe, a dangerous procedure in Sherlock's condition; if he was unable to breath without it they may not be able to intubate again - his airway would be too swollen from the traumas he'd suffered, medical and otherwise, and they may not be able to reinsert another should they need to.

Mycroft was pacing, but her legs were shaky, turned to jelly; she sat down, staring at the floor.  After what felt like an age, but couldn't have been more than a few minutes, they were called back into the room. The tube had been removed and he was breathing on his own, his fingers flexing and his eyes moving under his eyelids.

By that night he was disorientated but increasingly verbal, however incoherent, and was now responding to external stimuli.  They stayed with him through the night, sleeping in the God awful chairs that were universal to hospitals everywhere. 

Molly woke the next morning to a strange sensation; there was pressure on the hand that held Sherlock's. She opened her eyes and looked up to see storm cloud grey ones looking back at her; his lips were moving soundlessly, his eyes pleading.

She jumped from her seat to lean into him, "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

A blink. Yes.

Her heart stuttered, "Can you speak?"

Another blink. Yes again.

"You'll have to try again, you weren't making sound, can you do that? Can you try for me?"

Dry and bruised lips moved, a noise, barely a whisper, "Mol..."

Her hands flew to her face and tears prickled in her eyes, "Yes Sherlock?"

He closed his eyes, the effort to speak clearly exhausting him, "need..."

"Yes Sherlock?"

"...cigarette."

Molly laughed making a snorting wet sound. She pulled the stethoscope from the back of her chair to check his heart, his pulse, she wanted to hear if for herself – the signs that proved he was alive, real. She took an ophthalmoscope from her shirt pocket, and holding his eyelids open flicked it across his field of vision, pupillary responses normal.

She sat on the edge of his bed, and facing him took his hand in hers gripping it so tightly her knuckles were white. Her breath hitched when he tried to grip hers back. With her free hand she reached out to touch his face, the lump in her throat made it hard to speak, hard to breathe.

“Do you know where you are Sherlock?”

He shook his head, almost imperceptible, but a no gesture all the same.

She gently caressed his cheekbone with her thumb, his skin warm and alive under hers.

“Do you know who I am?”

Another small movement. Yes, this time.

He whispered, the effort needed to talk clearly monumental, “Yes," he swallowed, his usual baritone rough and diminished, "you belong to me.”

Looking up to meet her gaze his piercing and penetrating look suddenly present again, he gave her a fragile little lop sided smile, teasing and mischievous, despite his frail condition. His fingers twitched against her hand.

"You heard me!!" She should have been embarrassed that he heard, that he was teasing her - she didn't care, she was joyous and relieved. The blackness that had surrounded her for days finally lifted, the early morning sunshine casting warmth and light over them both.

For the first time since Sherlock had woken her up she looked over at Mycroft - just in time to see a smile that graced his lips and eyes spread across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line "You belong to me" comes from the Patsy Cline song of the same name, but I'm currently listening to the Kate Rusby version, which is so, so beautiful.
> 
> Mycroft is quoting Lorca from "Blood Wedding" (I know, really upbeat!)


	4. Want me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for Nydamascus97, whose comment on ‘Know that while you sleep’ prompted me to include the reference to Beethoven’s letter.

* * *

 

 

 

A shaft of glorious, dappled sunlight warmed the ancient wooden floors of Sherlock’s bedroom.  He stood at the open full length window, barefoot and flexing his toes against the grain of the wood, with eyes closed and the sun on his face, curtains billowing gently in the soft Mediterranean breeze that ghosted across his bare torso and through his hair; carrying with it the scent of lemon groves and sea air. 

He breathed it in deeply.

The sounds of the sea in the distance and the trees rustling in the fragrant wind slowed his respiration.  His chest expanded and he parted his lips. Nothing existed in that moment other than what he could feel.

Transport, only transport.

He’d believed that once, truly he had.  The body for so long meant nothing to him, merely a means of conveyance for his intellect. It could be refused sustenance, sleep deprived, drugged, denied its baser urges, it didn’t matter – his mind, his work, were the only true necessities for survival; his corporeal existence secondary to his cerebral one.  That had all been so easy to be certain of until the day five weeks ago while in captivity and tortured by Blackwood he realised the error in his reasoning. An intellect needed form to exist; deductive reasoning needed sensory experience to understand. 

There was always something he got wrong.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock looked to the garden below.  Molly walked through the over long grass which grazed her bare ankles, and came to a stop at the edge of the garden, looking beyond the hills below out across the turquoise sea. Strands of her loose hair catching on the breeze, skin kissed pink from a morning’s exposure to the sun.  The skirt of her white cotton dress clinging above the knee to her legs and almost translucent in the bright early afternoon light. Like a wild flower she turned her face up and toward the sunshine, basking in its heat. Watching her sway almost imperceptibly with her head tilted back, he leaned an arm against the window frame and rested his cheek there.

Molly Hooper had been a revelation to him, unique in his sphere. It had once been so easy to dismiss her as unimportant, a bit player in his sweeping, epic drama. He had taken from her and used her, twisted her obvious infatuation with him against her, assuming her ignorance of the manipulation. When at last he realised that she gave so much, not because she expected him to return her affection but simply because he had needed something that was within her sweet gentle power to give, a tenderness alien to his heart had bloomed within him. Molly _liked_ him, a rare occurrence in Sherlock's life.  His shock the day before he left London when he realised that she had no idea of his trust in her, his fondness for her, his need for her friendship, had cut him to the quick.  So he went to her, asked for her help, hoping that his actions would speak louder than inept words ever could.

When he’d woken up in hospital four weeks ago it had been to the sound of her voice telling him that he was hers. He had playfully teased her in return with her own words, gratified to see she hadn’t been hurt or embarrassed, taking that as a sign of the new friendship and regard that was growing between them. A closeness that had not existed before had developed during the long days spent together in his hospital room.  Molly was truly a remarkable woman, and now they had developed into something… _more_.

In the first days after he had awoken she had slept in the room adjoining his while Mycroft had moved to sleeping quarters elsewhere on base. His recovery had not been linear; and on difficult nights, through pain, and nightmares she had sometimes slept on his bed with him, holding him steady as his body was wracked with restlessness and anxiety, grounding him. It had created a peculiar kind of intimacy between them.  More than that, she had provided him with an easy companionship that very few others in his lifetime had been able to give; she didn’t fill silences with pointless chatter, she was extraordinarily intelligent and well versed in scientific study and provided him with stimulating conversation, she anticipated his moods so well that often she knew before either he or his brother when it was time to depart one another’s company.  She understood him, his needs. 

The woman would be damn near perfect if only she let him have a pack of Marlboros.

She turned now to walk back toward the villa and glanced up to his window, positively beaming when she found him there.  So unlike the shy and hesitant woman he had left behind in London, Molly had been happy and relaxed these last weeks.  She wore confidence well, he thought; it really made her look quite... beautiful. He looked at her closely as she drew nearer, taking in her petite, lithe form, his mouth suddenly dry.

Yes, definitely just friends.

“Hello sleepy head." she called to him, then holding up her hand making a _‘two minutes_ _’_ gesture before stopping to talk to one of the security detail Mycroft had infested the villa with.  Sherlock watched as she laughed at something the minion, Stapleton, had said touching his arm gently as she passed him and continued on her way.

Really it was appalling the way the hired goons flirted with Molly, he thought, before flopping onto his bed petulantly, limbs dangling like a crane fly and throwing one long arm over his eyes like a swooning maiden. 

A whisper of fabric and the sound of bare feet padding closer on the worn wooden floor signaled her entering the room, he turned his head, sighing laconically,

“Why must you persist in poking and prodding at me?” pursing his lips and widening his eyes in question, “I’m perfectly well.”

“You were released into _my_ care and you’re under _my_ medical supervision, so I’ll decide when you’re well.  Open up.” Flopping on to the bed beside him she shook out the thermometer she was holding and held it in front of his lips.

“No.”

“Sherlock, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” waggling her eyebrows and looking at his rear, “it’s up to you.”

“Fine.” he huffed and sat up begrudgingly.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, stop being so dramatic, it's just obs and meds.” The urge to roll her eyes was overwhelming.

“ _Me? Dramatic?..._ ” He said indignantly.

“Yes,” Molly pushed the thermometer between his pouting lips and took his wrist to check his pulse, her fingers gently caressing the sensitive skin, lingering there, “Mr Cheekbones-Curls-Coat, _yes_ triple hyphenated, and _yes_ posh enough for triple hyphenation. _Dramatic_.” She stuck her tongue out at him and he pinched her thigh gently in retaliation making her laugh – a bright, real, thing that made her eyes glitter and his heart skip a beat. 

“Your things came from London this morning,” then checking her watch, “Mostly books, your violin, sheet music, a microscope, an iPod… _Oh_ , your pulse is a bit fast,” she frowned, pulling the thermometer from his lips, “Mycroft phoned, he’ll be here tomorrow,” Sherlock bestowed upon her a frown worthy of a moody toddler, “your temp’s up too. Come on then, back into bed.”

“Oh for God’s sake Molly, is that really necessary? I'm going mad trapped inside this house."

When he moved to swing his legs onto the floor she put a hand on his chest and pushed him gently back down into the pillows, ordering “Bed. Now. Or I’ll send for your Mother again.”

Pulling the blankets around his legs he heaved out a sigh. It was amazing just how quickly the threat of ‘Mummy’ always worked. Mycroft had finally brought their parents to Italy once Sherlock was out of the woods, and Molly had been shocked to find them eccentric but _normal_.  Her first meeting with his Mother had been priceless, the picture of Sherlock squirming under her scrutiny when she had asked in her cut glass finishing school accent if Molly was his 'bird' would stay with her forever, second favourite only to the memory of Mummy cutting up Sherlock's toast into soldiers one morning at breakfast.

“Can I have a book at least? One of my own, not the pop culture trash that you read.”

“Thank you Sherlock, I esteem and respect you too,” she said dryly, “your books are already here,” pointing to a box in the corner, “I had Jack bring them up while you were sleeping-"

"Who?" Sherlock asked, feigning ignorance and indifference.

"Jack Stapleton" she threw her eyes heavenward, then realising who she was dealing with added helpfully, "Mycroft's minion. Anyway, you can get out of bed long enough to pick one, then straight back.” She said over her shoulder as she left the room, wondering to herself when had she become the single parent of a three year old…

 

* * *

 

Molly returned a few minutes later to find Sherlock sitting with his legs crossed under him on his bed, and a book open between his knees; the contents of the of the box that had arrived that morning piled on the floor beside him. Holding out a glass of water and paracetamol for his temperature to him, and putting a hand on his forehead, she reached for his book, “Why don’t you lie down, I’ll read to you.”

He put a hand defensively over the book, looking for all the world like a school boy caught in the act of something naughty, “No, I’m fine thank you.”

That had peaked her curiosity, and with a wry grin she said, “Oh come on, what is it ‘Fifty shades of Grey’?”

Blushing a little, but looking haughty he said, “Fine, but don’t make jokes.” then reluctantly and without looking at her, “The page is marked.”

Molly settled back against the head board and then lying down beside her he relinquished the book. She looked at it, then back to him with her eyebrows raised, ‘Love letters of great men’?”

“Margaret Ann Hooper, I said no jokes.” He meant business too if he was rolling out her full name. Her Mother and he would have gotten along so well she thought.

 _Wait_ , how did he know her full name?

"Birth certificate," he said without being asked and leaning in to rest against her, "do you really think Mycroft lets anyone within a two mile radius of his family without a full background check?"

"Or occasionally kidnapping them."  She said sarcastically, opening the page that was marked, beginning to read.

_“From Ludwig van Beethoven to his Lover: July, 1812._

_While still in bed my thoughts turn towards you my Immortal Beloved, now and then happy, then sad again, waiting whether fate might answer us - I can only live either wholly with you or not at all, never can another own my heart, never, never. O God, why do I have to separate from someone whom I love so much? Your love makes me at once most happy and most unhappy._

_Angel, be patient_ _– only through quiet contemplation of our existence can we achieve our purpose to live together.  Be calm. Love me - today_ _– yesterday._

 _What yearning with tears for you, you my life_ _– my everything._

_Farewell, continue to love me,_

_Never misjudge the most faithful heart of your Beloved._

_L. ”_

By the time Molly had finished the letter Sherlock had wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head against her breast, his fingers curled in the fabric of her dress, their legs now tangled together in the blankets. A frisson of electricity tingled in Molly's spine when his bare skin brushed against hers.

“Who was she?”

“He Molly, Beethoven was a he.” He mumbled into her sleepily, pressing his cheek against her more tightly, his breath hot through the fabric of her dress.

“No, I mean ‘ _Angel_ ’, his immortal beloved?”

“No one knows. He never sent the letter. It was found amongst his things after he died.” His long, delicate fingers idled along the seams of her bodice.

A gentle hand threaded its way into Sherlock’s messy hair, still short in places from where it had been shaved for surgery. Molly coiled a loose curl around her finger, and held him close to her, “So, she never knew?”

“She did, there are other letters,” his jaw muscles visibly tensed, “but they were never united, there are mentions of illness in one of the letters, it may be that they left it too late to be together.”

Something thick and wet swelled in Molly’s throat, she thought of the words Mycroft had said to her about self-inflicted punishment, about the chances she should have taken and never did, and about how when she thought he would die her regrets were for all the things she’d never said to him.  When she thought about saying them now she swallowed the lump in her throat down and instead said,

“Would you like me to read another?”

“Yes, please go on…”

Molly read until Sherlock fell asleep. When his breathing deepened, she watched the rise and fall of his chest - proof of his beating heart and the life within, then put her arms around his unclothed skin and kissed the top of his head whispering, “Sleep well beloved.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock threw the file he’d been given on Colonel Stephen Blackwood back to the pile of documents from where it came.

“Admit it Mycroft, you have no idea where he is.” A Holmesian trait, the man hated to admit less than complete and perfect knowledge of anything - it was a taunt, and an unkind one at that - he could see strain writ large across his brothers features.

 “Not at this present moment, no. My suspicion is that he’s fled the country, possibly gone to Nemchinov - he'll be aware that I'm making efforts to locate him, he'd be a fool to remain. I’ve circulated misinformation about your _death -_ I attended yet another of your funerals yesterday,” he gave Sherlock a tight lipped reptilian smile, “It’s my belief that for the moment you are safe.”

“Safety isn’t my concern."

"Maybe not," Mycroft gave his brother a pointed look, "but it is mine."

"I refuse to be treated like a child Mycroft, nor am I your minion to direct as you see fit. _I_ _want him_ ," Sherlock spat through gritted teeth, giving his brother an angry glare, "and I will have him. Don't dare take away what's rightfully mine because of some misguided sense of fraternal responsibility."

Rigid and angry, his voice icy cold, "Fraternal responsibility is the only reason you're alive Sherlock. You may not consider yourself under my control, but make no mistake, you are under my protection-"

"If by protection you mean house arrest-"

" _Enough!"_ Mycroft slammed his hand onto the table, the tea cups Molly had set out rattling and spilling.

Pale eyes narrowed, and Sherlock's face contorted in anger, "Either you assist Mycroft, or I will do it alone, but don't doubt that I will find him."

A heavy Silence filled the air between them; Mycroft closed his eyes and shook his head, considering for a time before eventually reaching inside his coat pocket to produced a cigarette, offering it to his brother in wordless acquiescence.

Sherlock hesitated, finally accepting in an act of contrition.

"Very well," Mycroft stood and began to pace, agitated, "what are you proposing?"

"I have to return to Rome."

"You can't be serious?" Exasperation and disbelief evident in his tone.

"I need to see where I was held," looking up at his brother, "we're missing something, something important.  He could have simply shot then disposed of me, nobody would have ever know what had happened, but instead he chose to make it more elaborate than it had to be.  Why would he risk drawing your attention?" Sherlock touched his fingers to his lips, pondering, "Why...?"

"A sense of theatrics? Perhaps personal gratification?"

"They're professionals Mycroft, personal gratification doesn't come into it," searching for understanding on his brothers face, "No, there's something. Something I can't see yet," running his hands through his hair, "I can't get a sense of him from the photographs, they're an unreliable narrative of events at best.  I have to see with my own eyes."

There was no case to argue, Sherlock was right. Mycroft sighed, "Very well. I'll make the arrangements."

Closing his eyes in relief, Sherlock gave one sharp nod - an almost unprecedented gesture of gratitude.

Mycroft looked at his little brother, his mouth working to say something, but no words came. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezed it once, tightly, then left.

 

* * *

 

Molly was furious; it didn't take much deductive reasoning to figure that out.  Something in her voice was brittle and angry, her body tense and she failed to meet his eyes when he spoke. What was puzzling him was why; he would so often get these things wrong, social cues, emotional responses.

After Molly had read to him they'd fallen asleep in each other's arms, and he had awoken to find her half beneath him, their legs still tangled together.  The blankets had slipped off at some point and the skirt of her dress had pooled at her waist, his leg was slotted between her soft thighs with the skin of his bare chest brushing against her clothed breasts in time with their synchronised breathing. His head rested on her shoulder and when she turned toward him in her sleep her breath ghosted softly over his lips, a sudden desire to kiss her, to feel that warm breath in his mouth overtook him. He wondered what the dewy perspiration that had gathered in her suprasternal notch would taste like. Tightening his grip on her hip he ran his thumb across her iliac crest. It had been years since he had woken up with a woman in his bed. Sudden, unguarded thoughts of their bodies together flooded his mind. Thoughts he had forbidden himself to have about her. His heart thundering beneath his ribs; heat flaring through him, startling and dangerous.

Assignations had been relative few since his last stint in rehab, but even when he had indulged his carnal urges they had been perfunctory affairs, choosing bed partners who outlived their usefulness at the moment of climax. But even before this, in his university years when his sexual appetite had been matched only by his appetite for cocaine, sexual experiences had never been paired with intimacy. There had only ever been three exceptions, once in Cambridge, once in Karachi and once in Rome, all of whom had turned out to be vipers in wolves clothing.

To want instead of merely need was a rare experience for him. But at that very moment, in that very bed, he suddenly felt a visceral want run through him like a current straight to his loins. With his erection pressed against her leg, it would have been so easy to push between her thighs and take her mouth, to move his hand to cover her breast and to have her.

But instead he had pulled himself from her arms, and had taken care of the matter expediently by himself. Had she noticed? Had he crossed some invisible boundary of their newly strengthened friendship?

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his lips twisting in frustration. This, _this_ is why he avoided women - his blind spot was a mile wide, deductive reasoning made useless by feminine wiles and emotions.

She was currently making her displeasure with him known by pounding the muscles of his back into oblivion.  Molly had taken over from his physical therapist when he had deduced that her husband was having an affair, and who then ran from the Villa screaming ' _barare_ _bastardo_ '.  He was face down on the bed as Molly straddled his hips, kneading him as though she were trying to tenderise steak.

"Ow! Molly, for God's sake can you be careful," and then because he thought he should say it, "Please."

"I thought you enjoyed pain Sherlock," she spat, digging her knuckles into his right trapezius muscle, "you get off on being beaten half to death. Actually all the way to death, and you still go back for more" she gave a small grunt as she rose up to press down harder.

"Molly, what are you, _OW, careful,_ what are you talking about?" He said genuinely perplexed.

She pushed off him with a huff and sat back on her heels beside him on the bed, "I heard you. Talking to Mycroft. I heard you."

He twisted onto his side to look at her.  Her hair was in disarray, tendrils loose from the ponytail she wore sticking out everywhere, cheeks flushed with anger, her mouth pressed into a thin white line.

"What exactly do you think you heard?" His nose and forehead crinkling in confusion.

"That you plan to find the man who tried to kill you." She looked like she might slap him.

"Ah." So not about yesterday.

"Yes. _Ah_."

"Molly-"

"You're not strong enough to, to... do whatever it is you're planning."

"I will be." Looking up at her through his lashes, "Soon."

Staring at him in disbelief, "Don't you think you've - we've - been through enough?" She balled her hands into tiny fists by her side.

"It's not that simple."

"Oh yes, it bloody well is! When someone tries to kill you, you stay the fuck away from them! How hard is that to understand?"

Rolling off the bed and walking toward the window, with her back to him she wrapped her arms around herself defensively, much quieter now she said, "I think I should go back to London."

Sherlock scrubbed his face in his hands, then ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated. "Molly, no," plaintively, "Please."

"Do you know what I've been through? Hm? How frightened I've been?" Her voice was ragged and exhausted, the emotion of the past month, all of her fears for him, bubbling to the surface; she glanced over her shoulder and her eyes drifted over the still healing scars and mottled bruises that covered his body.

Their eyes locked for a brief moment before she turned her head away from him again, a smouldering look of hurt and anger on her face.

Climbing off the bed he walked to her, hovering first before reaching out to put his hands on her arms, sliding them up to her shoulders and resting his head against hers. The gesture was tender, deliberately and manipulatively intimate.

Now Sherlock paused, swallowing hard before going on, "He will kill me if I don't kill him first. He _will_ find me and he _will_ kill me."

He pressed his nose into her hair, inhaling her warm comforting scent – L’air Du Temps and fresh grass - his fingers dug into her shoulders gripping her tightly, “He made a mistake, he was under the influence of narcotics when he shot me. He missed his target, my spinal cord, and then left me there without making sure I was actually dead.  The people who paid him to do this will kill him for not finishing the job he was sent there to do.  He has to finish this.  My only chance is to find him first before he realises his mistake. Molly please, please look at me." He tried to turn her around, but she stood still, unmovable, refusing to acquiesce to his demand.

"Then let Mycroft do it, I heard you tell him that you wouldn't allow that.  Let him," she paused, her body pressing back against his, "Otherwise I have to go.  It's been too much Sherlock, I can't, I just can't..."

What could he do? There was no other option.

"I have to Molly, I'm sorry," her shoulders sank under his hands, “Please stay. Molly?"

"No. Sherlock," she shook her head and turned, looking up at him, "no."

Her breathing quickened as she pulled out of his grasp, prising his fingers loose and shaking his hands from her shoulders. Sherlock felt the distance, the loss of contact, it settled in his gut like lead. He reached out to hold her, to try to bring her closer, make her stay.  Her face was sad, paler now, her lips quivering. Fighting to keep her voice steady she said, "As soon as Mycroft can find someone else to manage your care, I'm going home. I'm sorry," she shook her head again and smoothed her hair down with both hands, trying to compose herself, "I care about you too much to watch you do this."

 

With that she walked away, leaving a stunned Sherlock standing alone in his bedroom, wondering how it had all gone to hell so quickly.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The letter Molly reads is taken from ‘The Love Letters of Great Men’, but I’ve edited it to keep the pace of the chapter going (a bit). Full text can be found here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Immortal_Beloved  
> (Side bar: I’d read and loved it long before Carrie Bradshaw stole my idea!)
> 
> Wanda Ventham did once ask interviewer Caitlin Moran in a 'cut glass finishing school accent' if she could find BC a 'bird', Mothers!! *rolls eyes* - it's highly unlikely she still cuts his toast into soldiers though.
> 
> Thanks to o0katiekins0o for her input!!
> 
> Italian translation came from Google Translate, so sorry if it's wrong.


	5. Kiss me

 

 

* * *

 

Molly pulled the pillow over her head trying to block out the shrill, screeching noise that emanated from Sherlock’s room, disbelieving that such a beautiful instrument – _a Stradivarius for Christ_ _’s sake_ – could be responsible for making such a horrific sound. Groaning in frustration she pulled her watch from the bedside table - 3.24 a.m. – and threw her pillow at the wall.

Enough. _Enough._

Storming along the corridor, she swung open his door to find him standing with his back to her, the offending instrument in hand. He spun around in a flurry of blue silk dressing gown to look at her, his eyes flitting across her, analysing.

“Sherlock what _the hell_ are you doing? It’s half past three in the morning.”

“I’m working,” pointing toward the door with his bow he said with practiced nonchalance, “please leave, you're disturbing me.”

"I'm disturbing you? you can't be-" huffing out a breath through her nose and attempting to calm herself, “Look I know you’re angry with me-”

“This has nothing to do with you,” he turned away from her sullenly, “I’m composing, it helps me to think.” In profile she could see his chin make a small wobbly movement, the one he made when he’d been scolded or was upset about something. He looked so young, so vulnerable.

"Sherlock-" she reached a hand out to touch him but he recoiled, all of his wires pulled taut again.

"Leave. Now." His voice was tight, controlled, his face blank and unreadable.

_This was pointless, utterly and completely pointless._

Slamming the door behind her, Molly went to her room, grabbing her pillow and ripping the blankets from her bed before leaving the house for the veranda, in an attempt to put distance between herself and the six feet tall source of her annoyance, just as the screeching started up again.

 

* * *

 

 

“Rough night?”

Molly groaned. The sun was already bright in the sky, stinging her eyes when she opened them; every muscle ached from the night spent on the wooden floor, and the start of a head ache pulsed behind her temple where she pressed the heel of her hand against it to try to make the dull pain stop. Bleary eyes took in the tall, muscular, blonde form hovering above her.

 “You could say that, yeah.”

Stapleton sat down on the floor beside her, “Here, let me” he extended a hand, pulling her upright then held a steaming cup of tea out to a now sitting Molly, who gratefully accepted it while stretching and rolling her neck.

“It’s my day off; I’m taking a drive down the coast why don’t you come with me? The break would do you good,” then nodding back toward the villa, “give his highness a chance to settle down.”

“I can’t today,” she wrinkled her nose, “Sherlock’ll need me.”

Gulping down the too hot, too sweet tea she said sheepishly, "I'm sorry if he kept you awake; he does that sometimes when he's bothered about something."

“Lovers tiff was it?”

“ _NO_ ,” Molly turned to him, “God no, nothing like that, we’re just, um, friends,” shifting uncomfortably, the muscles in her back aching.

“Oh, please,” Jack bumped her shoulder with his, “A person’d have to be blind not to see the way you two look at each other.”

Puzzled, Molly tilted her head to one side asking “What way is that exactly?”

“You mean the eye fucking?" he laughed when she punched his shoulder hard, "well _you_ look like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car,” he smirked at her and she laughed almost spilling her tea, “and _he_ looks like a blind man granted sight, seeing the stars in the night sky for the first time.”

“Don’t say that," defensive and shaking her head, “he doesn’t feel things that way.”

Jack put an arm around her shoulder, pulling her against him, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

When she gave him a skeptical look he said, “I thought that about my man when I knew him first, that he was cold, unfeeling - you get that type a lot in our line of work,” drawing in a breath through his teeth and looking up to the heavens with a whist full sigh, "but boy, was I wrong.” He winked at her and gave her a quick peck on the cheek before pulling himself off the floor.

When she finished her tea Jack helped her up, and gathering her things together they made their way back to the villa through the dewy grass, chatting happily as they passed the security detail doing their morning checks. As they neared the villa Molly glanced up to Sherlock’s window to see him standing there staring at them, when their eyes met his face turned to stone and he swept away back into his room.

 

* * *

 

 

By noon the screeching had given way to languid, mournful music, his moods so easy to interpret; she realised he wasn't upset anymore, now he was just unhappy, his misery poured into every heartbreaking note. Sherlock was still keeping to his room and as the day drew on Molly began to worry. He hadn't eaten since yesterday, wasn't talking and when she brought his meds he had looked hurt, lost and alone. He was so fragile she realised, beneath his rigid and often venomous exterior was a heart that felt so deeply that he had convinced himself the only way he could survive was to not allow it to feel at all; a beautiful man-child, unable and afraid to seek the love and approval he so desperately craved. He wore his indifference and cruelty like armour, but in the last weeks he had trusted her, let her see what she suspected very few others had ever been allowed to; he'd lowered his defences, let himself be vulnerable with her, she'd seen glimpses of a delicate heart and tender soul.

And now the gates were closing again, the drawbridge rising; she didn't want to be responsible for that, no matter what the rights and wrongs of it were.

Whatever had passed between them, no matter how close they had become, he was always going to resume his work; he'd left London and given up his life as he knew it to do the very same thing - and she had helped him willingly then, so why had she expected it to be different now?   Even if she was right, even if it hurt to watch him chase after his own destruction, hadn’t she only weeks ago made bargains with God just to be able to talk with him once more, to hear him breathe, to know that he was alive? He was only a few rooms away from her now and she was punishing them both by keeping her distance.

Who knew if after he left she would ever see him again? Who knew if he would survive the next attempt to take his life? She was overwhelmed with an infinite sadness, she didn't want to stay - she had to protect her own heart - but she couldn't leave it like this either.

 _Right_ , she thought determined and resolute, _sod this_.

Molly took the stairs two at time, breathing hard by the time she reached his room. His playing stopped before she'd even knocked.

"Sherlock, may I come in please?"

There was no answer from inside, only the sound of barefooted pacing, and just as she was about to call out to him again the door opened, his eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and his lips were pale thin lines, he said quietly, uneasily, "You haven't asked once in the last month if you had permission to enter my room, why do you feel you must now?"

"I thought I might not be welcome, you did ask me to leave last night." As she entered the room he walked toward the window raising the violin again to rest on his shoulder, Molly closed the door behind her then leaned back against it, her eyes following him.

Without turning to look at her, low and absolutely still he said, "I apologise, my behaviour was uncalled for." He held his bow in position but didn't play. Realising that he was waiting for her to say something she walked tentatively toward him, when she was close enough to do it she reached out and softly put a hand against the line of his back. Their reflected eyes met in the window pane.

"I'm sorry too," when he didn't pull away she drew closer to wrap an arm around him, feeling his rib cage contract sharply and then hold perfectly steady, "I don't want you to put yourself in danger again, but I won't argue with you for being who you are. You can't...care for someone and then chose which parts of them you want. So." She huffed out a shaky little breath, a lump in her throat.

She felt his hand cover hers and he began to breathe again.

"I understand. I do. I should have been more gracious. It's just that I've grown accustomed to your company," he gripped her fingers tightly, she would never know what it had cost him to admit to himself - to them both - how much he wanted to have her near, "I'm grateful to you. And for what you've already given, I had no right to ask for anything more."

He turned his head so that she could see him in quarter profile, saying quietly, "Have you decided when you're leaving?"

Sucking in a deep breath and not realising she’d made the choice until the words left her lips, "No. Um, I'm not. Leaving that is. I’ll stay as long as you need me."

"That's, that's..." he swallowed tightly, his body slackening in relief, “thank you.”

The air between them was becoming easier to breathe, their bodies falling into the muscle memory of past embraces.

Beautiful, foolish man, she thought, he could ask anything of her and she would give it. Resting against him she brushed her cheek against his back, "I'm your friend Sherlock, you can always ask for my help, I'll always be here for you."

Setting his violin and bow down, he turned in her arms and pulled her against him tightly, her soft warmth making his heart thump in his chest; resting his chin on the top of her head, "Is that what I am to you? Your friend?"

"Of course Sherlock, of course you are." She buried her head in his chest, unable to see the disappointment written across his face as he clung to her, his heart full of regret and his tender feelings for her pushed away; the words he wanted to tell her died in his throat before they could pass his lips.

 

* * *

 

 

"Where?" Nemchinov thumbed through the surveillance photographs that had just arrived.

"Not far from Sorrento, just like you said" came the tinny voice from the other end of the line.

"Who's the girl? She looks familiar."

Blackwood looked at his own copy of the picture, "She arrived the day after they found him, a doctor from London. Eh," he rifled through the reports and pictures that covered the table top, "Molly Hooper, she's a pathologist at Bart's Hospital."

Nemchinov laughed, "Jim was almost right, Holmes _was_ fucking a little doctor, just not the one he thought. _Shit_..." the penny finally dropped.

"What?"

"I knew I'd seen her somewhere before. That's not just anyone Stevie, that's the little whore Jim was screwing."

"You're kidding?"

"No, I'm fucking not," resting back in his chair he thought for a moment, "OK, tell you what, don't kill her, bring her here after you've finished the job, I wouldn't mind seeing what she can do that's so fucking special that both Moriarty and Holmes had to have it."

"That'll make it messy Vik, cleaner just to off them all."

"No, bring her here, we'll call it an apology gift for your fuck up in Rome."

"Yeah, ok, sorry Vik," Blackwood knew he was lucky Nemchinov had taken his mistake so well, "I promise I'll fix that, he'll be dead within seventy two hours."

"See that he is, or you will be. Ending that bastard might not have been my only goal, but it was an important one, he still owes me for Sergei's death," he tossed the photo he was holding of the Holmes brothers walking in the grounds of the safe house on to his desk, "you're just fucking lucky that in the end it made no difference and things are going to plan anyway."

"Yeah, I know-"

"And things are going to plan Stevie, right?" His tone was questioning, but Blackwood was under no illusion that it was anything other than a threat.

"Definitely Vik, it's all playing out exactly as you said it would."

"See that it does." Nemchinov hissed, and the line went dead.

" _Shit_." Blackwood shouted into the empty room.

He stared at his phone for a few seconds, thinking it through, then dialled. When the call connected he said, “Look, I know what we agreed but there's been a change to the plan, it's the girl..."

 

* * *

 

Less than two months ago this would have been unthinkable. Sherlock had drawn a perimeter around himself, across which no one was allowed passage; his mind and heart impenetrable, safe from harm. Every damn time he had let that wall down it had been catastrophic to him, and yet here he stood at her door, knuckles touching the wood poised to knock, wondering if the error had not been allowing entry to another, but his choice of who to allow entry to. Excitement and energy buzzed through him every time Molly touched him his heart palpitated, every time she looked at him with her enormous dark eyes the electricity of potential, of something new, sparked in the air between them. When she had held him earlier he felt an inexplicable need to tell her everything he'd been thinking, to tell her that his entire body felt like a raw, exposed nerve whenever he was in her presence, that the desperate need to touch her made it so he couldn't think. But it was more than that, more than just base desire, there was true affection; she had become so irreplaceable to him, their easy shorthand with each other so precious.

He'd finally connected the dots only when she said she was leaving; if anyone could be trusted with his deepest secrets, with his heart, it would be her, he knew with certainty that Molly Hooper would keep him safe.

Yet he hadn't gone to her and now there was nothing he could do; their moment had passed and Mycroft's revolting minion had seized his opportunity. The fury that had gripped him when he witnessed their intimacy earlier that day had abated, now realising the fault lay solely with him. Had he acted when he was certain of Molly's regard for him, had he realised that gentle, sweet Molly Hooper who radiated light and joy whenever she was in his presence was so _right_ for him, then maybe, just maybe the question that hung so palpably in the air between them now would not go forever unanswered.

He unfurled his hand and placed his palm flat against the door, gently resting his forehead against the warm wood. She had been his friend and now he would be hers, he owed her that much at least.

He drew his hand back from the door and walked away.

 

* * *

 

*ping*

Molly blinked in the dim early evening light of her bedroom, her restless dozing disturbed by the sound of a text alert and her phone vibrating on the bedside locker. She squinted, the brightly illuminated screen hurting her eyes,

 

**Veranda.**

**Come at once.**

**Wear the dress you wore last Sunday.**

**S**

 

 _What the...?_ She stared at her phone just as it pinged again.

 

**Stop thinking Molly.**

**S**

 

 _'How on earth does he do that? '_  she wondered, closely followed by ' _What fresh hell will this be? ' ._ Sighing, she sleepily pulled her yellow sundress from the wardrobe and dressed in the near dark.

 

* * *

 

When she'd freshened up and changed Molly made her way downstairs to the veranda, expecting to find a pyjama clad Sherlock whinging about boredom - which Molly would be expected to alleviate; and demanding tea - which Molly would be expected to make.

Instead the scene that awaited her both confused and touched her.

She hadn't seen Sherlock wear anything other than pyjamas and a dressing gown for weeks, his hair had been constantly messy because of the uneven growth after surgery, and he was usually barefooted. But the man who stood before her now was _her_   Sherlock, _London's_ Sherlock. Dressed in an immaculately tailored black shirt and trousers, complete with dress shoes, Sherlock had had his hair cut in a way that evened it without losing any of his gorgeous curls. He stood beside a white linen covered table, laid with silver cloches and sparkling crystal, surrounded by tall elegant candles that glowed softly all around them, the flames flickering and reflecting in the nearby glass.

She walked, almost floated, to him and wordlessly reached up to thread her fingers into his hair.

"I had it cut," he smiled almost bashfully, "I had the minions find a local barber and bring him here."

"I can see that," her hand stayed in his hair toying with curls at the nape of his neck, she looked around, "And dinner?"

" _Ah_ ," with a note of embarrassment in his voice, "also procured by minions," and then hurriedly as though he felt it was important that she know, "but at my instigation. It came from a nearby trattoria, I'd eaten there before this business." He waved his hand dismissively across his injuries.

He pulled out a chair and then the ridiculous, beautiful, impossible man indicated for her to sit by taking her hand, kissing it, and leading her to it, bowing to her when she sat; eliciting a wave of giggles from her that was reciprocated with a genuine smile that reached all the way to his eyes.

He sat down, pouring a glass of Barolo for them both before removing the cloches from their plates.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" he said absentmindedly swirling his wine around the glass.

"I'm not complaining, _at all_ , but what is this?"

He crinkled his nose, "It's dinner," taking a sip of his wine, and raising his eyebrows in approval, "Do keep up."

"Thanks for that," a look of bemusement on her face, "I mean what's it for?"

He pursed his lips and gave a shy smile, looking up at her, "An apology, a thank you."

 _There it was again_ , she thought, _that beautiful, youthful vulnerability_.

"You've been steadfastly my friend, for months now, and I... well, I haven't said thank you. Nor have I been much of a friend to you." He gave a sharp little breath, "So."

"You don't have to-" she shook her head.

"I know," he cast his eyes down, breaking contact with her, and softly said, "but I wanted to. I want to be a better friend to you."

She reached across and took his hand, squeezing it, and the tension of the last two days floated away on the night air like tendrils of smoke.

 

 ***

 

Dinner eaten and wine drunk, they sat relaxed and satiated, when Sherlock jumped to his feet with a small "Oh!"

Molly twisted around in her seat to watch him fumble with something that she couldn't see, blocked by his body.

When he turned back to her, the sultry strings of a ballad filled the air, drifting from the speaker he'd set down on the window ledge behind them; he extended his hand to her, palm up, and blushing furiously in a way that made Molly's heart skip a beat, "Dr Hooper, would you do me the honour of sharing this dance with me?"

" _Sherlock -_ " she started, thoroughly embarrassed and flustered.

"Molly," he beckoned her with his hand, then teasing her said "Come on, I love to dance but no matter how many times Mycroft orders them to, the minions won't dance with me, besides, I'm bored and you're moderately good company..." he gave her a little smirk that made one corner of his mouth twitch.

Her cheeks hot, from the wine or self-consciousness she couldn't be sure which, she stepped up to him, taking his hand and allowing him to draw her close, their bodies fitting together perfectly; she was just the right height to rest her head under his chin, his hand just the right size to cradle her there. It felt to her as though they were two figurines carved from the same piece of wood, two halves of the same whole. The dress she wore left her shoulders bare, and he wrapped his arm around her, allowing his fingers to graze across her sun kissed skin. A spark of electricity ran through her at his touch.

The mournful strings of the track he'd chosen resonated through the stillness that lay between them, and an ethereal voice sang the words of a song that sounded to Molly's ears like gypsy music,

 

 _"_ _I cannot follow you, my love,_ _You cannot follow me._

 _I am the distance you put between all_ _of the moments that we will be."_

 

Bracing himself he spoke, his lips brushing against her hair, he kept his voice carefully detached, "I'll see to it that Stapleton is reassigned to London."

She stilled, halting them both and then drew back to look at him, " _What?_ "

"That's his name isn't it? Stapleton? I'll ask Mycroft to see to it."

"What...? Why on earth would you do that?" her mouth gapping wide, she frowned in confusion.

Frustrated he rolled his eyes, "Isn't it obvious?," and then in an odd display of honesty he said matter of factly, "I was going to have him reassigned anyway, he's spying on us for Mycroft."

"They all spy on us for Mycroft!"

"He watches more closely than the rest though," then musing more to himself that to Molly, "perhaps because of his feelings for you."

Perplexed she said, "Why would you think he- _Oh_ , oh Sherlock, do you mean...? Because of this morning?"

His body tensed.

She looked at the now endless unblinking attention he was paying her, " _Oh my God_. He's involved, Sherlock-"

"That rarely prevents mutual attraction from-"

"-with a man." She gave him a pursed lipped, pointed look.

He blinked slowly and breathed a silent 'Oh', pulling her back to his body they began to sway to the music once more.

He raised an inquiring brow, "So, he doesn't-"

"No." She slowly shook her head against his chest.

His hands slipped around her back, letting them drift across her shoulders and neck, causing something low in her belly to flutter.

"And you don't-"

"No!" She burrowed into his chest.

Uncharacteristically struggling to find an appropriate response he simply said, " _Oh_..." touching his lips to the top of her head again, his fingers pushing into her hair.

They swayed slowly to the song that Sherlock was now humming, the vibrations running through him and into her. Their movements in perfect sync now, only serving to increase the contact between their bodies. Her arms curled around his waist, clinging tighter and tighter, her breath hot on the exposed skin where he had left the top three buttons of his shirt undone. She was fighting an urge to put her lips there and taste him.

"I can't believe that's what you thought I wanted," then almost involuntary and without premeditation, "there's only been one thing I've ever wanted from you."

She could feel his heart beginning to pound where her cheek rested, and the air between them crackled with electricity. Molly felt a shiver run through her body when fingertips delicately touched her skin - goose bumps rose everywhere despite the warm night air around them.

He began to turn his head slowly from side to side, rubbing his parted wet lips across her forehead.

 

 _"If you should ever track me down,_ _I will surrender there,_

 _And I will leave with you one broken man_ _whom_   _I will teach you to repair."_

 

Her hands sank dangerously low on his hips, her thumbs rubbing circles there, and he audibly swallowed.

Sherlock raked his fingers into the loose long brown hair that fell around her shoulders, gripping it gently he pulled it to tilt her head back before bringing his hands up to cup her face, placing the tips of his fingers on her pulse. His piercing eyes studying her intently, shades of grey and blue reflecting golden candle light.

He stroked his thumbs over her cheekbones, and then swiped down to trace them slowly across her bottom lip. She leaned into his touch, an apparent invitation, and dipped her thumbs under the waistband of his trousers.

"What is it you _do_ want Molly?" his voice hoarse and breathy, his eyes searching the expression on her face.

Her cheeks flushed and pupils blown black, he could feel her heart beat under his fingertips. Her voice was low and sultry, letting go of her fear and hesitancy.

"This, I want this." She said in a choked whisper.

Sliding one hand up along the soft fabric of his shirt, she splayed her fingers and when they reached the open buttons at his neck she pushed them under his collar, pulling him down to meet her lips.

Soft yielding lips parted against hers, his thumbs meeting under her chin, pushing to tilt her head back. She arched her neck and tentatively touched her tongue to his bottom lip, then catching the plump flesh there between her teeth she sucked it slowly, gently, into her mouth. A bitten off moan escaped his throat when she stroked his tongue with hers. Gentle at first, the kiss quickly became fiery, heated; his lips almost bruising against hers, each of them pouring out every moment of longing. It was hungry and messy and passionate and demanding and, _God_ , it was glorious.

Long fingers trailed down her throat and finger tips mapped the line of her collar bone, and then swept across her sternum to graze the top of her breasts, exposed by the low vee of her dress.

"Molly" he gasped into her mouth, almost pleading, and pressed the long line of his body against hers.

She broke the kiss to look at him, flushed and heavy lidded he sought out her mouth again, and she touched her lips against his over and over in a thousand wet open mouthed kisses that all began to blur together into one until Sherlock pulled away to brush his lips along her jaw, stopping at the temporomandibular joint to suck and lick, his teeth grazing her earlobe. Her body arched against him and she felt a hard length press against her belly, his long arms wrapped around her and held her tightly against him, his finger nails scratched against her dress, and his head dipped to mouth at her sternum. Sucking wetly between her breasts, he guided her backward, unseeing, against the wall and ran his hand down her spine to cup her backside and grind against her.

"Oh God" she moaned when his teeth scratched over her clothed nipple, "Sherlock, please..."

His mouth pulled back from her and his head came to rest against hers, breathing in heavy strangled gasps. Her hands slid across his shirt and began to pull the buttons free, exposing alabaster skin; placing her lips over his heart she skimmed the palm of her hands across his nipples, then ghosted fingers down his bare torso until she reached his waistband where she stopped; they both stilled for long seconds, she waited for an objection that would never be made.

The only sounds audible in the night air were ragged, desperate breaths, and the closing violin strains of the song they had been dancing to,

 

_"You know who I am..."_

 

When at last she began to move again, her fingers traced the stitching lower until her fingertips brushed against his swelling erection; the contact causing him to hiss and throw his head back, a long deep ' _Ah_ ' escaped him as he bucked against her hand, his mind struggling to stay online, base desire overwhelming his senses. Their bodies beginning to move in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the dying music.

He placed a hand on the wall beside her head to support himself and said in a voice deepened by arousal, dangerous and dark, "I want you."

Smouldering eyes that reflected the stars shining above them looked at him wildly, "Then have me."

Silently he took her hand and led her to his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Sherlock plays for Molly is a cover of the Leonard Cohen classic 'You know who I am' by Giovanna Pessi and Susanna Wallumrod. Not my favourite Cohen song, but I thought it suited Sherlock.


	6. Touch me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a busy week, a new job and a new city meaning that I live 150 miles away from hubby for 4 days a week, so this chapter is dedicated to the wonderful, beautiful Mr OhAine whom I love more than life itself.
> 
> This chapter is basically just an excuse for smut. I know that isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, so if you want to skip it you’re not missing any plot – there’s only one take away from this chapter and I will put that in summary at the start of Ch7 – feel free to sit out the (hopefully) hot, hot sex!!!

_-_

_-_

_Aware of everything. Twenty two long strides, eighteen stairs (almost the correct number), eleven more strides, difficult now - vascular constriction - Molly's touch, pudental and pelvic nerves stimulated, brain going offline - amygdaloid, cerebellum, pituitary gland, nucleus accumbens - can't think, limbic system overriding everything, neurochemicals causing attachment - just like cocaine (only more addictive, more dangerous) reward circuit and pleasure centre - dopamine, beta-endorphins, oxytocin - Molly's hands, vasopressin - her lips, testosterone- want her - want everything from her - want to give her everything, norepinephrine - Molly._

_Molly. Molly. Molly. Molly. Molly..._

 

Somewhere between where they were and where they now stood he'd begun to think, to process. And now, _and now_ , it wasn't a beautiful and desirable woman who stood before him anymore, it was so much more than that, it was Molly. Gentle, kind hearted, loving Molly, who could be so easily hurt by him, who would give him anything no matter what the cost. _For God's sake_ , what was he doing? He couldn't take this from her, couldn't be the one to hurt her ( _already have_ he thought) _._ Suddenly it seemed like the most important thing in the world to keep her safe.

_Safe from him._

_Safe for him._

 

"Sherlock?"

 

He blinked and the room, his bedroom, swam back into focus, her hand still in his, delicate fingers caressing the sensitive skin of his palm. A voice in his head that sounded like a very smug Mycroft pointing out _, 'Be honest, isn't it more likely that you'll hurt yourself? Harm yourself? If what you're feeling is what you suspect it is?'_

Even though he had no practical experience of it, these feelings, so tender, so fearful, it must be-

 

"Sherlock?" she said again breathless, her fingers sliding around his neck, and mercifully his mind went blank once again, the spell broken.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the end it was so easy; years of stolen glances and longing ended by a simple act, a single kiss.

 

Molly brought her soft lips up to rest against his, barely touching - coaxing and careful, her chest heaving against his, the tiny noises she made when he returned the kiss vibrating through him. Molly's hands - those of a surgeon, delicate and precise, Sherlock barely noticing that she had opened all of his shirt buttons, his trousers too, until her hand slipped inside and wrapped around him. The feeling was exquisite, but not enough.

 

The only source of light in the room was the bright, silver full moon outside of the window, and he realised that wouldn't do - he wanted to see everything, wanted to catalogue every response, wanted to remember every expression, he wanted to know what her face looked like when she came, when she begged, when she screamed his name. He stilled her gently moving hand for a moment and understanding his intentions, Molly pulled away to draw the dark blue curtains while Sherlock crossed the room to turn on the bedside lamp, casting a soft glow around the room and causing shadows to fall across their faces and bodies. Standing with the back of his knees touching the clean crisp white cotton sheets that adorned the bed, Sherlock watched her pull the curtains tightly together before turning around and toeing off her shoes; she looked wild and predatory, lustful intention evident in her eyes. His cock gave an approving twitch at the sight.

 

As she crossed the room, her bare feet gliding across sun bleached ancient wood, their eyes met and locked; and when she was an arm’s length away Molly reached out, nudging him gently to sit down on the bed. The angle and height difference meaning he barely had to lean forward to begin mouthing between her breasts again, one long, strong arm curled possessively around her back, his other hand slipped around to her backside kneading the fleshy curves there, his fingers scrambling for purchase in the folds of her skirt before pulling her down onto his lap.

 

With her hands coming to rest on either shoulder, Molly slipped his black shirt down his back and biceps until it reached his elbows; the luxurious and expensive fabric pinning his arms tightly at his sides, she kissed the junction between his long neck and shoulder, Sherlock groaned when she began to lick and suck, his pulse fluttering under her lips.

 

"Molly" he said blindly, with no idea of what he's asking her for.

 

"Shhh," she whispered, "trust me."

 

She teased his nipples with her finger nails, making him hiss and then give a throaty sigh, while lowering her head to suck on his neck, teeth nipping and grazing, she listened to him pant open mouthed against her, the skin of his chest and throat flushing a beautiful shade of crimson.

 

"Again," he breathed against her, "please, again."

 

Her tongue gliding along the sharp contour of his jaw, she pinched and twisted his sensitive nipples, making him whimper. Resting his head on her shoulder, she realised he was watching her touch him, the barest hint of stubble scraping against her upper arm as she moved.

 

It had been so long since he had felt a _real_   lovers touch, sheer want made him needy and breathless. Long fingers traced the sharp bones of her hips - the most he could do with his arms trapped, thumbs stroking, fingers gripping, the need to do more becoming an obsessive thought,

 

"Please, I need to touch you Molly."

 

Indulging him she tugged his shirt sleeves down and off, one at a time, kissing the newly revealed skin as she did, his hands immediately seeking the zip at the back of her dress, guiding it down and down until he could pull her straps low enough to expose her breasts. Her hand slid up his neck, her fingers stroking the nape before guiding his head to her breast, his hands low on her back pushed her down, seeking pressure on his exposed cock; the rough lace of her panties, torturously rubbing against his sensitive flesh. Nipples tightening and back arched, she pushed into his mouth, desperately seeking the friction of his soft tongue.

 

Firm capable hands stretched against her bare back as she pulled her arms free of her yellow sun dress to let it pool around her waist. Lowering her head, Molly took his face in both her hands and brought their mouths together, her fingers pushed into his soft hair, her thumbs stroking along the shell of his ears; the contented little humming noises he made in response ran through her like a current straight between her legs, the pulsing there getting stronger and faster. With fingers splayed he drew his hands around and over her ribs, gently, slowly, pushing his hands up until he brushed her nipples with his thumbs; she arched her back and wantonly, shamelessly, pushed down against his cock, rolling her hips, they groaned into each other's mouths. Desire, unspent sexual energy and longing making them bold.

 

"You've thought about this Molly, haven't you? You've dreamed about what I would do to you, what you would do to me." His voice raspy against rosy lips that still tasted of wine.

 

"Yes." Blood pounding hotly in her ears, impatient lust overwhelming rational thought.

 

"Tell me what you think about when you touch yourself” he demanded, dipping his head to kiss along her jaw, her ear.

 

One hand moved down to rest on her knee, skimming his palm along the soft flesh of her inner thigh and under the skirt of her dress, his fingers - light and teasing - grazed the wet lace at her crotch, slipping one long dexterous thumb under the seam he pushed through soft damp hair to unerringly find her clitoris, stroking her gently at first then adding glorious pressure.

 

His intense pale eyes rose to watch and catalogued her responses, exciting and unnerving her at the same time; to have Sherlock's laser sharp mind focused on her was almost too much to bear, too intense.

 

He palmed one hard nipple, and touched the tip of his tongue to her ear before sucking the lobe into his mouth and grazing it lightly with his teeth, lowering his lips to mouth along her collarbone and still rubbing in a firm circle around her clit.

 

She exhaled hot breaths against his ear, "I think about you inside me, your mouth on my breast. I think about you holding me down and taking what you want from me, about you tying me down."

 

Letting out a long guttural moan against her throat he made a breathy sound that could have been 'Oh God'. He brought his fingers up to her throat and dragged blunt fingernails down and between her breasts, then turning his hand brushed the back of his fingers against the quivering skin of her belly.

 

"I think about tying _you_ down, fucking you until you can barely breath," he increased the pressure on her clit and she responded by rolling her hips, lower, harder, "I think about you undressing me, the feel of you against me, I think about your mouth between my legs, and how it would feel to have my mouth on you, sucking-"

 

With an almost growl he took her mouth in a rough desperate kiss, lifting her and rolling them over so that she was pinned beneath him on the bed, he thrust against her mindlessly, pulling at her panties and dress wanting to lay her bare before him, but the angle was wrong and his movements were too clumsy and erratic. Forcing himself to stop he lifted himself off of her, slipping to the floor and on his knees he pulled her backside to the edge of the bed.

 

Raising her hips and tugging at her dress he pulled it from her waist, throwing it to one side, and putting a hand on either of her knees he spread her open, running his hands up along her inner thighs and then hooking his thumbs into her underwear he slid them slowly down her legs. Exposed completely to him for the first time, he ran one long finger down the length of her lips and pressed back into the cleft of her arse, pulling away, teasing her, when she bore down on his hand. Lifting her knees over his shoulders he peppered her damp thighs with lazy open mouthed kisses, one hand seeking her breast while with the other he slid two long fingers inside her.

 

She hissed, sucking in a breath through her teeth, body arching and throwing her head back, then exhaled a deep throaty groan. Clutching at the sheets, her fingers scrambling for purchase, her heart was pounding and she was so turned on she could barely speak, “Oh God. Sherlock, please I want to come.”

 

His mouth finally reaching her dripping wet folds, gentle full lips sucked her clitoris between his teeth, her whole body tensing and relaxing with a noisy breath escaping her, one hand gripped his hair almost painfully and her fingernails scratched his scalp, the other hand joining with the one he’d already placed on her breast to pinch and rub her own peaked nipple.

 

Talented fingers worked in tandem with his wicked mouth. Sherlock licked with precision, flicking his tongue inside her where his fingers had now curled and were stroking, before withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with the hand that had been teasing her nipple; he parted his thighs and slipped his hand into his open trousers, wrapping the hand that was wet with her juices around himself, beginning to rub slowly up and down, gliding the thumb over the head of his cock with every pass, teasing the slit with a gentle finger nail. His pre-come mingled with her slick juices, the pleasure almost unbearably good and he sighed against her, causing her fingers to tighten in his hair. The muffled sounds of Molly’s harsh breathing above him stimulating and stiffening his already rock hard erection.

 

Salty, musky juices mingled with his own saliva on her skin and Sherlock lapped at them, his hot, harsh breaths on her cunt felt glorious to her.

 

“More. Please. More…” she groaned flustered and hoarse, savouring the feeling of being _just there_ , when without warning her body tensed and began to shudder, her ecstasy causing fresh juices to flood into Sherlock’s mouth, he sucked and licked her through her orgasm, only stopping when she released his hair and grabbed his shoulders to pull him onto the bed beside her.

 

“That was- that was…”

 

“Good?” he ventured, smiling at her looking boyish, his eyes shining.

 

“I was going to say ‘ _fucking amazing’_ actually” she panted, laughing, one arm flung over her head.

 

Staring at her, he was struck by how beautiful she was like this, her skin flushed, eyes glittering with warmth and affection but most of all her pretty face smiling, happy and relaxed.

 

The observation only serving to make him more aware of the feelings for her that were twisting in his gut.

 

Molly pulled herself upright and swung her leg to straddle him, cupping his face she dipped to kiss him and he tried to turn away, “Molly, no, I’m-”

 

“I don’t care about… that, it doesn’t matter,” she kissed him slowly, deeply, tasting herself on him, “I want you inside me Sherlock.”

 

She wrapped her hand around his neck and pulled them both to sit up, taking his erection in hand she rubbed the hard and leaking head of his long, thick, delicious cock along her wet folds.

 

Panicked, “Oh God. Molly, stop. _Stop. Stop_.”

 

She pulled back frowning at him, “I’m sorry Sherlock. So sorry,” she tried to move away, “I didn’t mean to…” she had no idea how to finish the thought or what she'd done wrong.

 

“Molly, no, wait,” he reached for her, pulling her back against him, “please. I want to. It’s just…” he looked at her shyly “…condoms. I hadn’t prepared for this… outcome.”

 

 _"Oh,"_ she breathed leaning back down, kissing him very slowly she slid down his body, reaching for his shoes and socks she pulled them off one by one, “If that’s you’re only concern,” she tapped his hip and he lifted off the bed letting her work his trousers down to free his straining cock, “you’re clean,” he raised a quizzical eyebrow, “hospital records Sherlock,” she said “and so am I,” she sat across his thighs and took him in hand, “and I’m also on the pill.” Lowering her mouth onto him she touched her tongue against his frenulum, and obscenely rubbed the leaking head of his cock against her lips, “But if you’d prefer, I can suck your cock, I’ve been told I’m really rather good.”

 

With a devilish gleam in her eyes she looked up at him and licked at the wet tip letting her tongue swipe over and back against the underside of his shaft, then guided his cock between her lips to suck him enthusiastically; Molly massaged his testicles, tugging gently, letting her fingers brush his peritoneum and allowed her other hand to ghost across the sensitive skin of his lower abdomen. Bitten and wine stained lips replaced hands, sucking his balls into her mouth, and Sherlock began to murmur incoherently. His muscles tense and twitching, she pulled off him to place a line of gentle kisses up the length of his torso. Sucking and kissing wet stripes around his throat, she cupped his face and ran her fingers across his sharp cheekbones, whispering into his ear, “I’ll do whatever you want,” he shuddered against her, “you can have anything you want,” she kissed his beautiful bowed lips and repeated for deliberate effect, “anything.”

 

When Sherlock carded his fingers lovingly through her hair, she heard him say, “Inside you,” and Molly wrapped her arms around his narrow waist to lie flush against his body, kissing every part of him that she could reach, she sighed into his pale soft skin when he said, “that’s what I’ve been thinking about.”

 

Waves of intense hot, desperate arousal washed over her. Those words, from that man; words Molly Hooper never thought he would think much less confess to, made her want to stop everything and take him in her arms and never let him go, she felt as though if she did she would weep. She sat back on his hips to look at him, his skin was flushed all over with excitement but there was a pronounced blush high on his cheeks, usually pale and alert eyes now dark and heavy, unguarded tenderness and joy written on his features. Tiny beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead, his hair – tinged red in the soft glow of the lamp light – damp and dishevelled.

 

She reached out to brush a curl away from his temple. He was so beautiful to her; alabaster skin, so pale and, for a man, so soft, broad shoulders exaggerated by narrow hips, his body muscular and wiry, he was long limbed and elegant like a thorough bred race horse, his bone structure, his hair, his eyes all stunning and uniquely his. She had seen his body before, during his recovery, but she had tried to remain professional, he'd been in her care after all and she hadn't allowed herself to think of him that way but now that she could look, she drank him in.

 

He blinked, once, twice, then closed his eyes and his head turned to one side leaning into her touch, he blindly reached out to carefully skim his fingertips over her hips and down her thighs; it was then that she realised he had truly meant what he’d said – he had thought about this, imagined it, he had wanted this too.

 

He shivered when she reached between their bodies to grasp his cock and guide it to her entrance, where she held him until he lifted his hips up to her, only the silky head breaching her; pale eyes opening wide when Molly sunk her full weight down on him. Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth, and his neck stretched – every tendon carved out in relief, every muscle in his face tensed as she took him in to her body inch by inch in one long, slow, slide.

 

“Look at me Sherlock,” she leaned down and traced his eyebrows with fingertips that then sank into his hair, placing tiny kisses around his beautiful face, “look what you do to me.”

 

Sherlock obeyed and watched as Molly sat back onto his hard length, her backside touching the top of his thighs, beginning to rock slowly, gently at first. With dark sparkling eyes, she held his gaze, their pleasure mirrored in each other’s faces. His fingers grasped at her hips and pulled her down as he pushed up into her tight, silky, wet heat.

 

“Molly,” his sigh turning into a long drawn out erotic moan as she began to move faster, his eyelashes fluttering, trying to keep them open, “yes, Molly, yes, yes.” His eyes were losing focus, his voice rough and low.

 

“Christ, you feel so good.” she rasped.

 

She leaned forward, resting her hands on his chest, looking for the angle that let her rub her clitoris on his pelvic bone with every thrust; she dipped her head and her long hair brushed his chest, she was on the brink of climax again. Almost, _almost,_ and then his fingers reached where their bodies joined, pushing against her, giving her the stimulation that she so desperately needed.

 

Parting her lips she tried to say words that were forgotten when her orgasm began to grip her, instead she screamed his name as she came, Sherlock feeling her orgasm as she fluttered and tightened around him. She tossed her head back and groaned as he quickened his pace, lifting them both off the bed with each hard thrust of his hips, she was loose limbed and shaky now, gasping for air. Deep, satisfied sounds escaped her.

 

“You alright?” she could barely hear his question over the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.

 

“Yes, God yes.”

 

“Good,” he turned them over in one graceful movement, “because now I’m going to fuck you.” He sounded debauched and needy, no strength left to contain his own need.

 

“Oh, God.” She groaned, spent and trembling, she gasped into his shoulder as her head hit the pillow and he reached between her legs to press his erection insistently back inside her. Circling her arms around his shoulders she pulled him closer to her, wrapping her thighs around his waist she crossed her ankles and dug her heels into his soft backside.

 

Sherlock bit his lip, trying to suppress the moans that were rising from his chest but the sensation of her tight body gripping his engorged cock was too much to bear; he began to utter sharp cries and desperate gasps through clenched teeth as he slammed into her, his hips bucking erratically, deeply, roughly. He pressed his head against hers, the scent of her perfume mingling with fresh sweat and the animalistic smell of their sex, he rubbed his parted lips against her skin.

 

The assault on his senses becoming too much, he let loose a ragged deep breath and a long, sensual, groan that Molly could feel in her bones. Tingling sensations in his spine and a pressure low in his belly made him as taut and rigid as the strings of his violin, his scrotum tight and full before his whole body shuddered. He pulsed into her, clinging to her, his fingers gripping her so tightly he left bruises; vision clouding over and ears ringing, the intensity of his orgasm shocking him. His body collapsed on top of hers, breathing so hard that he shook. The trembling arms that he’d supported himself with embracing her, holding her close.

 

 

All rational thought had left him long ago but now mindless pleasure made him incoherent in the aftermath of his orgasm, he said her name over and over and over, until she began to kiss him with an adoration and devotion that he had never experienced before. _Oh God_ , he thought, _the kissing, so much kissing._ Hands roamed everywhere, seeking any skin that they could find, warm on damp flesh.

 

How natural this felt, the sheer _rightness_ of it, caused fear to settle like lead in his stomach; he tried to reconcile its coexistence with the overwhelming happiness he felt, but found that he couldn't. His chest swelled with a joyful pain that pressed against his ribs and lungs; all of the air in the room sucked out, his heart beating wildly.

 

“I didn’t know,” he muttered, panting against her skin, over and over, so low that she didn’t hear the words, “I didn’t know.”

 

When at last he rolled them over on to their sides, Molly, still wrapped tightly in his strong embrace, placed sleepy kisses across his throat and chest, her breathing becoming deep and even as she drifted off into a peaceful sleep. And as Sherlock lay awake watching her into the early hours of the morning, all of the things he could never have predicted he’d ever want suddenly seemed to be right there in his arms.

 

Hours later, his body finally succumbing to the wine and physical exertion, his last waking thought was that there was nothing sudden about this at all; a hundred tiny steps, a thousand kind smiles, have all finally coalesced into this one perfect moment. His foolish, romantic heart daring to believe that maybe, just maybe there could be a happily ever after for a man like him after all.

 

The inevitability of it, the gravitational pull between them always there waiting for the stars to align.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Promise me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay: If you skipped chapter 6 you might need to know that poor Sherlock is falling in love but has no clue that it's meant to feel like this.
> 
> A bit more smut in this chapter, sorry, not sorry!
> 
> Props to o0katiekins0o - chats with her helped me figure out Sherlock's sexual history

* * *

 

 

“Have my brother’s travel arrangements been made?” looking up at his assistant from reviewing the mornings strategy and security briefings that littered his desk. Although bodyguard was probably a more accurate description, given her skill set and training, Mycroft found it easier to explain the constant presence of a P.A. to Mummy rather than tell her he was in constant need of a trained assassin by his side.

Keeping her eyes fixed on her Blackberry, not once looking at the man in front of her - he’d really have to break her out of that habit he mused. “Yes Sir. His flight leaves tomorrow at fourteen hundred hours, pick up is thirty minutes earlier.”

“And Dr Hooper?”

“Stapleton has been given his instructions; he’ll take her to the new safe house as soon as we leave the villa. Her flight to Rome is just minutes after your brother’s.”

“Excellent.”

He pursed his lips together, ready for her challenge – although he had to admit, if only to himself, the reason he kept her close, the reason why he liked her so much was precisely because she _would_ challenge him, she was brave enough to question his decisions.

“You’ll travel to Rome with Sherlock-”

_“M?”_

He held up a hand in a ‘ _stop_ ’ gesture, shaking his head sharply just once – a definitive ‘No’.

_“But Sir-”_

“No Eve, I need you to stay with him.  Once he realises I’ve deceived him,” Mycroft sighed wearily and rubbed his jaw – the memory of a particularly unpleasant Christmas dinner coming to mind, “he’ll be furious that I’ve denied him the satisfaction of eliminating Blackwood himself, and let’s just say he can be very destructive when angry.  It’s better to have someone who’s accustomed to dealing with, shall we say, _difficult_  people as his chaperone. If my timing is right, my team will have Blackwood before Sherlock’s plane lands in Rome and this whole sordid business can be put behind us.  He’ll be angry, but he’ll be alive.  That’s all that matters.”  A temper tantrum of epic proportions was definitely on the cards, but it wouldn’t be the first Mycroft had been subjected to; Sherlock would tell him how he’d pay for his interference, how he’d never forgive him, how he hated him – same old, same old.

Mycroft gestured for her to sit down in the seat opposite, “This situation is not only delicate, but extremely important,” adding with a pointed look, “ _To me personally_ , and frankly you’re the only person I would trust with my brother’s life. This requires tact and discretion, and you know how to handle a troublesome Holmes.”

“Very well Sir, Priority Ultra,” she was making a point of giving in to him, but he knew she understood, “but we’ll need a cover story.  He’ll wonder why I’m travelling with him instead of you.”

Muttering dismissively, “Already in hand. Have the agents I requested arrived?” his eyes returned to his desk.

“Um…” she checked Mycroft’s itinerary, “Jason Carter and George Grant, just landed Sir. They’re reviewing tomorrow’s plan, you’ll be meeting with them next.”

“And Blackwood?”

“Still hasn’t crossed the border into Italy, our informant tells us that he’ll be on the move south by midnight.  We are of course monitoring.”

The idea that he had to wait to move on Blackwood until he left Switzerland made Mycroft uneasy; he couldn’t risk an international incident, so his hands were tied, otherwise he’d have gone in himself and dragged the bastard across the border, but nothing could be done about that now.  Plans were ready, the best MI 6 agents on site, and Sherlock would be safe in Rome while Blackwood made his move in Sorrento; and while field work may not have been Mycroft’s preferred occupation he was immensely looking forward to re-enacting Sherlock’s torture, blow for blow, on its original perpetrator.  Blackwood had a debt to repay, and Mycroft Holmes was going to have it given in blood.

“Very well.  Is that all?”

She gave him a small, hesitant, barely there smirk, “There is another situation you may want to be kept abreast of…”

Mycroft raised just one eyebrow, a momentary slip of his mask.

“Cameras show your brother and Dr Hooper, eh, _dancing…_ ” her smirk changed into an outright grin.

“When?”

“Last night. I can keep you informed-”

“No,” urgently but softly, “no, that won’t be necessary.”

Knowing his brother only too well, any interference or intrusion in his personal life by Mycroft would only cause Sherlock to commit to a course of action designed to piss his brother off; he’d always had a violent aversion to anyone exerting control over him. No, best to leave them alone, and pray for once that Sherlock would see what was good for him.  His wayward brother needed to be under somebody’s positive influence, and if Mycroft couldn’t be the one to prevent his brother from going off like an incendiary device someday – destroying himself and everyone around him - he knew that given time Molly Hooper could. Relief flooded through him, _at last_ , he thought,  _I’m not alone in this anymore._

“If that covers everything…” He waved a hand to dismiss Eve, and returned to his work with the smug air of a man who knew he was always right.

 

* * *

 

 

They made love again that morning.

Last night had been frantic and passionate, so intense, so _longed_ for; and by both of them it seemed.  She’d fantasised about this, but it seemed her imagination was not nearly as vivid as she thought.  She never would have guessed he’d wanted this too and even though they’d become close in the last month the night before had been something wholly unexpected – it had been heartbreakingly _loving._ The look in his eyes, the expression on his face, the beautiful boyish and impish and cheeky smiles, but above all of those things, how real his touch was, how reverent his kisses were, how a man as guarded as Sherlock had lost himself to her – the trust he had placed in her, letting her in. She’d drifted off to sleep on a wave of oxytocin and sheer happiness.  If it was only ever to be one night, if this morning he’d told her it would never happen again, she would have no regrets.  In those moments he had been perfect, and he had been truly hers; she had no idea what came next but nothing would ever change that.

But he didn’t give her cause to question his intentions.

They’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms and Molly had woken to find her self surrounded by him; the arm that was underneath her, wrapped possessively around her shoulders, his other arm resting on her waist with his fingers splayed across her belly. His legs were tangled with hers, his chest rising and falling against her back and his hardening erection pressed against the cleft of her bare backside, he’d buried his nose in her hair, and was breathing with giant deep _whuffs_ in his sleep that blew strands of her hair across her face, tickling her cheek.

 _Sherlock was a cuddler,_ she thought, smiling to herself and amazed that she knew that about him now. Even in his sleep he seemed desperate for skin to skin contact; when she moved his body drifted around the bed with her. Molly luxuriated in his embrace, so strong, so safe, given without hesitation, no unfilled spaces left between them. 

When he finally woke he whispered, almost groaned, her name into her hair; his hands moving to turn her until they were face to face.  Sherlock ran a tentative, gentle, forefinger down her nose and across her lips, her hands glided along the fluttering muscles in his back. Wide and guileless eyes shone at her as he mouthed soft kisses over her face and throat, his hands gentle and confident as he pulled her beneath him again; his naked body stretch out unselfconsciously over hers. Last night’s heightened desperation became this morning’s slow worship.  With his face in her hands they kissed deeply, slowly as his hands skimmed her breasts and thighs; her legs wrapped around him and their bodies pressed together, he took her breast between the perfect bow of his lips. She murmured words of encouragement to him; he breathed prayers about beauty and grace to her. The texture of Sherlock’s skin, early morning stubble across salty, delicate, cheekbones lingered on Molly’s lips as he rested, barely moving, between her thighs; only the tip of his cock breaching her for the longest time. Either side of her head he supported himself on shaky arms, brushing his tongue over her barely parted lips; she stroked fingers up and down his back and sides. Soft thighs began to tremble around him, and lacing their fingers together he pinned her hands over her head, pressing them into the pillows. She nodded her consent to him, she was beyond speech, beyond thought, as he pushed deeper and rocked his hips into her with barely there thrusts.  The pace was all at once agonisingly slow and deliciously decedent, but it was enough and soon they lay satiated in each other’s warm embrace.

Sweat cooling on their hot skin, with her arms draped loosely around his broad shoulders and his head resting on her breast he spoke with trepidation, afraid that he might break the fragile bubble of their new state of existence but desperate to know the truth, “You don’t regret what’s happened between us?”

The fingers that had been idling over his back moved up to touch the hair at his nape. Tears, caused by an unnamed feeling, that she tried to hold back stung her eyes as she answered, “No, I could never…” her voice thick with emotion as she blinked through damp lashes, asking, “You don’t either?”

He raised his head to look at her and brushed his thumbs through the tears at the corners of her eyes, “Molly, I…” he shook his head in exasperation at his inability to express things he had never, _ever_ , felt before, his curls ghosting against her skin “Molly, the merest scent of you takes my breath away, the briefest glimpse of you makes my chest ache, the smallest touch from you makes my heart sing. How could I regret having this?  Having you?” Pale, elegant hands slipped beneath her and dipping his head to her sternum once more he audibly swallowed before saying quietly, “Those who have taken me to their beds before have never…have never really wanted me, nor I them.  It had always been a game, played at either their expense or mine. It’s never been,” he waved his hand between them, “ _this_.” He gulped deep breaths as he steadied himself by clutching at her tightly, unable, _unwilling_ , to part himself from her. A tremor that was starting to rise in his throat stopped him from saying anything more.

Her heart twisted painfully in her chest; he’d used and been used, no affection, no love given by or to him, yet here he lay being...wholehearted…with her.  The realisation dawned that not only was he fragile, but he was so hopelessly lonely too. She didn’t know how yet, but she resolved to make sure he’d one day know he’d been truly loved at least once in his life.

 

* * *

 

 

They’d fallen asleep again, but it still wasn’t quite noon when they woke for the second time that day. Molly stumbled to the shower, resisting the urge to just lay in bed all day and look at the gorgeous man in it, and fought off said man’s attempts to get her to stay by telling him she needed tea and a shower in order to be able to even think about engaging in the filthy and inventive things he’d been suggesting to her.

He showered while she dressed the bed in fresh sheets and foraged for breakfast, returning to his room tea and toast in hand to find he’d managed to crawl back into bed; his torso bare and the soft sheets low around his waist, she wrestled with the urge to lick the hipbone that was just visible. Plopping onto the bed beside him she was wrapped once more in his arms as they drank tea from the same mug and got toast crumbs between the crisp white cotton sheets, he kissed away a smudge of jam from the corner of her mouth.

Molly felt so damn content that she thought her heart could burst.

“Can you tell me Dr Hooper why you’re looking at me like that?” Propped up now on one elbow he looked adoringly at Molly who was smiling at him with a peculiar little expression on her face; it fell somewhere between amusement and pure joy, she was positively glowing. The morning sun light flooded in through the now open window and a warm breeze filled the room with the scent of the nearby sea.

‘ _Because now I know what Sherlock Holmes looks like after he gets laid’_ she thought to herself, vaguely amused, but instead settled for saying, “It’s nothing,” she flashed an innocent wide eyed smile at him, her mouth quirking, “it’s just you’re lovely first thing in the morning.  You’re all sleepy eyed and dishevelled.  I like it.  It makes me feel like maybe we’re operating on the same level for once.”

Dipping his head to kiss her nose, his face slightly pinked with embarrassment, “Don’t be ridiculous Molly. You’re reasonably intelligent but no match for me,” he winked at her and she swatted his shoulder playfully before he burrowed down to rest his head in the crook of her neck and wrap his arms around her tightly once more, “I won’t allow you to persist in a delusion.”

“Ooh say that again,” she purred, “I find your condescension-”

“Stimulating?” he offered, in a smouldering voice.

She could feel his lips curl into a smile against her neck as she carded her fingers through his still shower dampened curls; he pressed tiny kisses against her warm skin. A soft hand on his chin tilted his head back to kiss him on the lips. He tasted vaguely of mint and tea but wholly of Sherlock. The swelling heart in her chest took her breath away.

Molly couldn’t for the life of her remember what was so urgent that she needed to get out of bed, and had just resolved to stay and find out if any of Sherlock’s earlier suggestions were physically possible when his phone rang.

He rolled over and shimmied off the side of the bed; she smiled to herself when she got a glimpse of luscious arse as he bent to pick up his phone from the floor, _‘Mycroft’_ he mouthed to her silently, rolling his eyes and looking petulant, while he dragged the sheet from the bed and wrapped himself in it as he made his way out of the bedroom and down the hall saying, _“Oh do fuck off Mycroft”_ in response to whatever greeting his brother had made.

Deciding now was a good time to clear away the plates and cold tea, she padded downstairs still in her dressing gown and headed for the kitchen, one ear cocked to Sherlock’s conversation as his tone began to sound serious.

Distracted by Sherlock’s hushed tone Molly hopped, startled, when Jack’s voice from a dark corner of the kitchen said.

“It’s pretty late for breakfast, second rough night in a row Molly?” a teasing expression in his voice and on his face.

“No,” she grinned, “just catching up on lost sleep.”

“Oh pull the other one, it’s got bells on.” He gave her a look that clearly said he knew _exactly_ what she’d been catching up on, but didn’t press her any further; when she sat beside him at the table, he patted the back of her hand and simply said, “good for you love.”

They sat and chatted amiably for a while, Sherlock hovering around the kitchen door, talking in a low, serious, voice to Mycroft but keeping an eye on Molly.  _Dear lord, was he still jealous of Jack?_ she wondered just as she caught sight of him watching her with a frown.

“Just a minute Mycroft…” putting his phone down, Sherlock stalked toward her saying, “Keep perfectly still Molly.” He brushed his fingers against her hair, and with cupped hands hurried to the window and shook something free.

Puzzled, she watched him smile at her, bending to kiss her nose and bestow a narrow eyed glare at Stapleton, his mouth set in a thin annoyed line.

“Get dressed!” she whispered with mock exasperation.

Snorting derisively he whispered back, “Frankly I find your insistence on unnecessary propriety irritating. I’m growing weary of you Molly Hooper.” Sherlock winked at her, smiling beatifically before picking up his phone to resume verbally sparring with his brother.

“ _What was that about…?”_ she scrunched up her nose at Jack.

“You had a bee in your hair, didn’t you hear it?” he studied her for a moment after she said no, cocking his head curiously he carried on watching her carefully, “Have you ever read Capote’s ‘House of Flowers’?”

She shook her head, not knowing where he was going with his question, “Never heard of it.”

“Well,” he said grinning, “a character in the story, Ottilie, asked the God of Houngan how would one know if one had found true love, and he says that if you can catch a wild honey bee, hold it in your hands without being stung and set it free you’ve found it.” He gave her a pointed look.

“That’s fiction Jack, come off it…”

“No, no, no,” he said seriously and shaking his head for emphasis, “folklore all over the world talks about using bees to test a true love.  Must be something in it.”

“Oh, and you’re an expert on folklore are you?” looking at him doubtfully.

“Bees actually, well not really just bees. I studied entomology at Uni, not for my primary degree, but I’m still interested, mostly in butterflies these days though.”

“That’s an interesting mix,” giving him an amused smile, “MI 6 and butterflies!”

“Well bugs are in my genes I suppose, my Father’s a scientist, a specialist in melittology,” answering the quizzical eyebrow she raised, “the study of bees, but his published work was about honey bees specifically.”

“Oh that’s lovely,” smiling fondly and thinking of her own Dad, “You two close?”

“Never met him actually,” registering her confused look, “but I plan to.” He toyed with his phone looking a little self-conscious and unusually, for him, reserved, “I was the unwanted product of an affair with a married man, my mother gave me away when I was born. I spent my childhood in care homes – breeding grounds for MI 6 agents you know – they love recruits with no family to care about them,” she reached out and covered his hand with hers, “to be honest, I don’t even know if he knows I exist.  But lately I’ve been thinking it’s time we met.” Looking a bit sad he continued, “I found my birth mother about the time I joined MI 6,” he gazed through Molly to somewhere off in the distance, “but she’s dead now.” Molly squeezed his hand sympathetically, “An accident the day I found her.  Broke her neck in a fall down some stairs right after she gave me my father’s name; it would have been impossible to find him otherwise, his name wasn’t on my birth certificate,” he sighed and seemed to pull himself together, “but find him I did.”

“Is he still married?”

“Yeah, with grown up kids near enough my age, just a little older.”

“So you have siblings? Brothers and sisters?”

“Just brothers.” He paused giving her a little tight lipped smile, and flashed his pale grey eyes away from her to look to where Sherlock stood, still swanning around dressed like a Roman Emperor and talking to a disembodied Mycroft on his mobile, “Two of them in fact.”

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as he’d finished talking to Mycroft, Sherlock had extricated Molly from Stapleton’s company and dragged her upstairs to his room again.  Molly, still acting as substitute physiotherapist, insisted that his treatment came before anything else.  In an uncharacteristic act of solicitude Sherlock agreed to remove his sheet and lay down so that Molly could straddle him and rub him down with oil - lest it be said that Sherlock was anything other than a cooperative patient – and he found himself unable to disagree with the idea of lying naked between her thighs. Not one. Little. Bit.

He was boneless and relaxed under her capable hands, and was beginning to wonder if it would be a good idea to turn over on to his back so that he could show her just how much he appreciated her efforts, when she paused to carefully place the tip of one finger into the small hollow of the still healing scar left by the bullet that had almost killed him.

Hesitantly, quietly she spoke, “The call earlier, from Mycroft, it was about Rome?”

“Yes.” He said muffled by the pillow underneath him, tensing as his mood took a sharp turn towards serious.

“When are you leaving?” her finger now rubbing gentle circles around the edges of the wound.

“Tomorrow,” he did turn now, taking her arms and pulling her down to lay by his side; earnest and sincere eyes looked into hers, “There’s no reason to be afraid. I’ll be gone no more than a day. The man who did this to me isn’t even in the country Molly, I’m examining the room where I was held,” cupping her face in his hand and rubbing his thumb over her cheekbone, “That’s all. There’s no danger.”

“This time.” _God help him,_ she thought, _can’t he see there’s every reason to be afraid._

“Molly-”

“Who was he? The man who did _that_ to you.” Unable to pass the words tortured and shot through her lips.

“Blackwood? He’s former British army and MI 6, he’d been involved in black ops too until he went A.W.O.L. a few years ago before turning up again to work freelance, mostly for the Central European gangs,” Sherlock drew a deep, strained breath to brace himself, “but in this instance he was working for a Russian crime syndicate – involved in drugs and human trafficking, mostly.”

“You took on a Russian crime syndicate?”

“No.  I didn’t, well, not directly anyway. They took on _me_ as it happens.”

“I don’t understand…”

“I’d been careful, discrete; I was following a line of inquiry about an Italian gang when the Russians began shadowing my every move.  I still don’t know why their attention focused on me, but it did, and then without provocation the brother of the man who is in control of that particular gang decided to kill me.  He wasn’t quick witted enough, so it was simply a matter of self-defence – I ended him before he could end me. Two weeks later I was drugged and captured,” Sherlock decided not to mention he’d been sleeping with the woman who had drugged him and then sold his life to the Russians – ‘fucked and then fucked over’ as Blackwood had taunted him on the day he’d been shot; to do so when lying beside the woman whom he had bedded for the first time less than twenty four hours ago might be ungentlemanly, not to mention, as John would say, _a bit not good_ , “and Blackwood… well, Blackwood wasn’t quick witted enough either. He was under the influence of cocaine when he…when I fell under his power.”

Searching her eyes for some understanding he went on, “Molly, this is what I do, what I’ve been trained to-”

“-Wait. _Trained??_ ”

 _Shit._ Not a conversation he’d planned on having today, sex really was worse than drugs when it came to brain work, “Ah. Yes. Well. I’ve been working for Mycroft, off and on, since my university days.  I have certain… _privileges_ , a licence to operate on behalf of MI 6.  Under Mycroft’s authority.” Authority was a more palatable word to him than the one another, less obstinate man might use.

Softly, gently, he spoke, his gaze intense and probing, “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Molly thought she did, but if anything she was more afraid for him now that she was before, “But you’re not MI 6?”

“No, I’m not, but it’s important that Mycroft’s superiors believe I’m under his supervision,” he hesitated before saying, “otherwise they may consider me somewhat dangerous and attempt to bring me to heel themselves. This way Mycroft can offer me protection and resources I might not otherwise have.” Her huge dark eyes stared at him, clearly terrified by the implications of what he was saying, “This case Molly, Moriarty’s network, it’s about more than just the game.  There are other interests at stake.”

“You said, back in London before you left, you said this was about John and Greg and Martha… you said it was about Jim…”

“And it is. A bit.” Frowning at her, lips pursed and his nose wrinkling between his eyebrows, “But it’s not just one thing. Nothing is ever that simple. I’m allowed to entertain myself but only in return for the rendering of certain services.”

He’d never felt this reticent about doing what he knew had to be done, but a part of him that was new, and therefore interesting and exciting to him, just wanted to bury himself in her and never leave their bed; to forget the boring criminals, the boring world and drown in the fascinating woman who had made his body hers and turned off the white noise in his head in a way that coke had never managed to.

Molly closed her eyes, her hands trembling as she reached out to hold him, “I know I have no right to ask anything of you. I mean I’m not…” struggling for the right words, careful not to push him, “this, whatever this is, is new, and you don’t…” she huffed out a shaky little breath giving up on her ability to articulate what she was feeling, “Just-just promise me you’ll be careful.”

Leaning in close, he could smell her shampoo, her skin, her could almost taste how she was under his lips last night, the whites of her doe eyes sparkled and her body was pliant and unguarded against his; and because for the first time in his life he felt he had something that he wanted to live for, he truly meant it when he said, “I promise. For you, I promise to be careful.”

Holding her until the tension left her body and the air between them was easy again, he pressed a kiss into her hair, on to her face – unable to resist the urge to exercise his new freedom to touch her and feel her under his lips - then tipped her chin back with one finger. Her face was serious, almost sad, and _that_  was not acceptable. With a mischievous look on his face he said, “What do you say to us breaking out of here and have some fun?”

“What??”

“Oh come on Molly, I’ve been cooped up in this prison for ages, we could sneak out past the minions and there’s a small cove at the bottom of the hill – we could go skinny dipping in the sea…?” waggling his eyebrows at her, “or, you know, there’s other things we could do on a secluded beach…”

Her eyes sparkling, lightness returning to her, “Okay. Yeah, you’re on.” Thinking for a moment, “I’ll distract them while you make a run for it.”

Laughing from somewhere deep in his chest with genuine amusement, “Molly Hooper, I had no idea you were such a bad girl.”

“Oh Sherlock Holmes,” she grinned, “you have no idea.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was just like Rome, he thought. The blood rushing to Holmes’ prick seemed to mean that none made it to his brain.  The idiot had left the safe house without his security detail and after stripping off and swimming with her, he was now fucking the pretty little doctor on the sand; she looked like she was enjoying it too; he laughed to himself wondering if this is what she would try to think about when Nemchinov or one of his men were on top of her while she was drugged and chained to a bed.

Blackwood set his binoculars down and picked up his rifle again; even at this distance he’d had at least three or four clear shots, he could have ended this and gone home, but the plan was the plan, and there would be more than just Nemchinov to answer to if he fucked it up now.

Dismantling his weapon, and texting in his report he consoled himself with the fact that within twenty four hours he’d have put a bullet through Holmes’ bloodless brain, his captives would be on their way to Nemchinov and he could get high and let his lover fuck his brains out.

Yes, tomorrow would be soon enough.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phrase 'fucked and fucked over' isn't mine - but I have no clue where I read it...
> 
> Jack is right - bees are often regarded as a means of proving true love!! Irish folklore is full of stories about them!


	8. Trick me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It almost goes without saying at this point that there are some smutty bits in this chapter. Sorry, I can't seem to help myself, I may need an intervention.
> 
> This chapter is for Icecat62, who has been keeping an eye on one of my characters for quite some time...

* * *

 

 

His bedroom, his bed, was quite. Too quiet.

Only a shaft of silver moonlight escaped underneath and around the curtains, the smell of the sea and his aftershave filling the air around her. Molly turned over in the darkness to find the bed empty and the sheets cold. The scent of him on the pillow beside her made her heart flip but for no reason she could understand she felt fear - his absence settled in the pit of her stomach like ice.

Their clothes were scattered everywhere, evidence of their impatient desire. The white cotton sundress she’d been wearing earlier when Sherlock had taken her to bed lay crumpled on the floor beside her; pulling it on and wrapping herself in the throw blanket that had slipped from the bed during their love making she tip toed quietly across the warm wooden floorboards and stepped tentatively from the room to look for him.

By the time she’d reached the bottom of the stairs the unnamed fear she had felt at his absence had left her to be replaced by gentle affection. Molly sank onto the last step and rested her head against the banister; the angle just right to watch Sherlock standing on the veranda, wearing only his pyjama bottoms low on his hips and playing his violin. It took her a moment to recognise it, because she had never heard the song before he’d asked her to dance with him, but with his eyes closed and with a small smile playing on his lips he swayed as he played the song they had shared their first kiss to.

“I know you’re watching me, you don’t have to hide. Come here.” He demanded without opening his eyes.

Slipping the blanket from her shoulders, she joined him outside.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” He said

“You didn’t.” She told him softly.

He opened his eyes; an intense gaze that shifted from silver to blue to green and back again studied her.

Reaching for her hand he brought it to rest on the violin tucked under his chin, then drew the bow across its strings; the vibrations of the notes ran along her fingers and she could feel the music on her skin. He watched her, wanting her to understand how it felt to have something, someone, make your body thrum and sing.

For long moments their eyes locked, as sultry music passed through them both. The tension of unsaid things filling the night air. When the piece ended, he lowered his violin to his side, his gaze still meeting her eyes; she gathered them both tightly in the tattered throw saying softly, “You’ll catch cold.”

All of her five feet three inches seemed somehow diminished when she stood next to him barefoot, her cheek nestled against his bare chest, his heart pounding against her skin. She placed a delicate kiss against the staccato beat.

Cradling her head in one large hand he said her name, simply but with a meaning that was indiscernible to her. "Molly."  His right hand pushed into her hair, his left arm wrapped around her shoulders, breathing her in, wishing for a life he hadn’t wanted until just a few short days ago. ‘Molly’ he said instead of ‘I think I may be in love with you and I’m terrified’ or ‘For the first time in my life I care if I die, because it would mean a lifetime not spent with you’ or even ‘I’m afraid I’ll harm you, that I’ll hold you so tightly that I’ll crush the very life from you, or that I won’t hold you tightly enough and you’ll slip away from me’. He pulled her close, she was so precious to him now, her new place in his life so fragile.

“Come back to bed,” she said, pressing light, tender kisses to his skin, “it’s too cold to be outside so late.” Her voice was gently with the affection that she gave so freely to him.

Taking his hand, she led him back to bed. _She was right_ , he thought, something in the air was much colder. In one night, Italy had slipped from the last days of an Indian summer into the first days of winter.

An almost imperceptible shift, yet everything was changing.

 

* * *

 

It was past three a.m. when Sherlock woke from fitful sleep, a cold sheen of sweat covering him, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed and swallowed; his mouth dry and sour with the remembered taste of his own blood. Nightmares of Blackwood and dreams of Molly; everything unreal and somehow wrong.

He’d been thinking about his capture all day, ever since Mycroft called to say plans had been made for him to return to Rome. He was uneasy, but was trying to hide it from Molly, who’d been quieter than usual after he had admitted he was leaving, even if it was for just one day.

Circular thoughts brought him back to Blackwood over and over again. It bothered him; something wasn’t right. He knew he’d missed something, something about the day he was tortured but he couldn’t see it; his instinct for detail, his sharp acuity had been dulled by weeks of prescription drugs and physical recovery. He had dreamed of that day for weeks, repeatedly, but tonight was different. Tonight he hadn’t remembered the things Blackwood had done, instead he remembered the things he hadn’t.

He estimated that he’d been held for thirty six hours and yet, _and yet_ , they hadn’t managed to kill him. Yes, it was an intended by product of the theatrics staged for Nemchinov’s entertainment, but something else had been on Blackwood’s mind – otherwise he wouldn’t have made the mistake of letting Sherlock survive. Why leave him to be found? Why not dispose of him quickly? Why draw the attention of Mycroft Holmes, the most dangerous man in Britain? It was there, _just there_ , crawling all over his skin, worming through his gut, but he couldn’t see it.

And then there was Molly.

Molly was just as big a problem, in her own way. They both knew their time together here couldn't last much longer, and now Sherlock began to wonder if she would wait for him. If she would want to wait for a man who might never come home again. The thought of her belonging to somebody else, the thought of another man’s hands on her now that she was his, made him feel sick to the stomach.

But she had cared for him for so long, maybe even... loved him. If he told her, if he asked her to be his, could he really have her? Would she give herself to him, body and soul, be his always?

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? he finally admitted to himself, he wanted a permanent place for her in his life. He was hers, there was no going back from that now, and he wanted her to be his.

Yet what right did he have to ask anything of her? If he were a better man he knew he’d let her go, let her have the happiness she deserved, the kind of happiness he could never, ever give her. But he was honest with himself, he knew what kind of man he was, always irredeemably cruel - especially to her, yet selfishly he wanted her. He wanted a lifetime to spend cataloguing the contented little sounds she made when he touched her, the expression on her face when she looked at him, he wanted the warmth and light that radiated from her to be because of him; he wanted to know everything about the way she affected him too, why she made his insides scream in joy and pain at the same time - the dichotomy almost too much to bear, why she made his mind and body peaceful in a way nothing or no one else ever had.

Staring into the darkness, he asked himself how could loving someone make him feel so alone.

He scrubbed his hands across his face as fear settled in him at the very idea that he might not return to her before her feelings for him withered and died. He couldn’t function like this; the uncertainty too much for him to take. There was nothing else for it; he’d have to tell her how he felt, learn if she could ever feel the same way. But that would have to wait until after Rome, after Blackwood. He’d be too distracted until then to get this right, and get it right he must, it wouldn’t be a good idea to try to tell her now; he’d say the wrong thing, ruin his only chance.

For the second time that night he slipped out of bed and walked outside, this time taking the cigarette that Mycroft had given him days ago and lighting it as soon as he was far enough away from the Villa that Molly wouldn’t know.

His thoughts drifted around him and like the tendrils of smoke from his cigarette they disintegrated around him, never fully forming. His mind beginning to race in a way it hadn’t done for weeks, pieces of the picture scattered everywhere, like a jigsaw, but none of it fitting together. 

Familiar cravings to quiet the noise throbbed in his temples.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock?” Molly’s sleep slurred voice turned toward him as he pulled back the covers and climbed back into bed.

“Go back to sleep.” He was tightly wound, she could hear it in his breathing, see it in the lines of his body.

“Have you been outside again?” she pulled herself up and turned on the light, worry and concern evident in her voice, “What is it Sherlock?” his tone sounded wrong to her, she was suddenly very wide awake and alert, a feeling that reminded her of his last night in London – he sounded alone and afraid. Looking at him she could see his eyes were enormous – unfathomably wide, his carotid pulse jackhammering in his neck, a pale sheen on his skin in the silvery ethereal light that emanated from the starry night sky outside.

With flushed cheeks and eyes that worshiped he looked at her, not speaking, but pulling his lover to him. Peeling the sheets back from her body to expose her, his hands and mouth took what he wanted to be his.

Spreading his body on top of hers, his lips soft on the shell of her ear; his rough voice vibrated through her as he said, "Can I have you?" wanting to continue ‘ _for the rest of my life_ _’_ but his throat was too tight, and he couldn’t form the words.

Wrapping her arms around him, she held him tightly; if that was what he needed, she thought, to have physical release, of course she would give it to him.

"Yes," she breathed beneath him, "yes."

She pushed his pyjama bottoms past his hips and down to mid-thigh, sucking hard enough on his neck to leave bruises as Sherlock, supporting himself on one elbow and with a shivering hand, slipped his fingers into the crook of her knee to hook it around his waist; for the longest time he just kissed her softly

“Sherlock…” Molly gasped, heat evident in her voice, slow burning arousal competing with concern for what little cognitive function she could manage when he touched her _just so_ ; oxygen rapidly leaving her brain as she breathed harder and harder becoming almost dizzy from the pounding of her heart. Her lips brushed his shoulder, soft but insistent, as he writhed against her; her legs parting in submission to him, he groaned as his throbbing erection slid against her hot, wet core. She wantonly pressed back against him, arching her back.

“Please, Molly, please, I can’t…please…” his voice was hoarse, almost desperate, as she mouthed his neck, his jawline. Her hands slid into his hair pulling hard, causing him to make needy, desperate sounds that once he would have despised himself for. She sighed heavily into his mouth as his kisses deepened.

His cock, pressed against her, becoming harder as he insinuated his hand between her legs and with his thumb he stroked her already sensitive clitoris, breathless and pliant beneath him she began to orgasm as he slipped into her while breathing hotly against her mouth. Finally entering the wet heat of her body, so tight around him, making him see bright spots of light behind his tightly closed eyes, every muscle in his body pulled painfully taut.

Rolling his hips against her, peace returned to him, the noises quietening as his whole world narrow down to just one thing, thoughts of her flooding his clearing mind. Molly.

She moaned and quivered around him and the chaos in his mind was wiped away when he followed her just moments later, his hand stroking, touching, caressing every part of her skin that he could reach. Her heart fluttered wildly, losing her breath as he said “It’s always been you, it’s only ever been you, I just didn’t know until now” his eyes wet, his breathing laboured.

 

* * *

 

When Molly woke the following morning it was to the sound of the shower running and a woman’s voice drifting up from downstairs. Eve was here, probably with Mycroft, to take Sherlock away from her to Rome. There was a sense of foreboding about their presence, Molly considered them harbingers of doom, of everything that was bad, everything that was wrong. Everything about this – the way Sherlock had been last night, where he was going today, the interlopers presence in their new bubble of existence – made her uncomfortable and nervous.

He’d been on edge since yesterday and last night he had worried her. There was fear and something very lost and alone about the way he looked; she’d seen him that way only once before, he had told her back then he thought he was dying.

She had just resolved to talk to him, to make him talk to her, when high heels clattered in the hallway outside his bedroom, and Eve knocked.

“Sherlock?” she called through the bedroom door, “I need to speak with you.”

There was no chance that Eve would just go away, so pulling her clothes on hastily Molly answered the door,

“He’ll be out soon. I’ll ask him to meet you downstairs.”

“Oh!” she smiled in response, her amused eyes slowly looking Molly up and down, “no need I’ll see him now.” Pushing past, and with a suit carrier bag in hand, Eve walked into the bathroom leaving a stunned Molly in the doorway. More stunning still was Sherlock’s lack of protest at the intrusion, he simply stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. His lack of self-consciousness around the woman making Molly stare, her mouth set in a thin line.

Thrusting the carrier at him she said, “M. asked me to give you this, and to tell you _must_ wear it or the trip is off.”

With a childish snort he replied, “He wants to control what I wear now? Isn’t having me under house arrest good enough for him anymore?” Sherlock pulled the zip of the carrier down and rolled his eyes, “Oh for God’s sake Eve, he can’t be serious?”

“Actually, it’s Anthea today, I’m feeling nostalgic, and he's perfectly serious, have you ever known him to be anything else? You will wear it,” she emphasised with a cold look, “and hurry up our car is here, we’re leaving in ten minutes.” She turned on her heel to go when he grabbed her elbow.

“The flight doesn’t leave for three hours, why are we leaving now? And where the hell is Mycroft?”

“Change of plans,” she said turning to remove herself from his grip, “We’re leaving now. M. is already in Rome, he had business there and went on ahead.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he snorted, scrunching his nose “Mycroft is physically incapable of keeping his beaky nose out of my business. What are you two up to?”

Ignoring his question and gliding from the room, over her shoulder she instructed, “Get dressed. Ten minutes.”

Sherlock drew a deep, petulant breath before impatiently calling Mycroft, who, by the look of things, wasn't willing to answer a call from an angry Sherlock. Walking back into the bathroom, suit carrier in hand he slammed the door behind him.

Deciding now might not be the best time to talk after all Molly ran a comb through her hair and put on fresh clothes; reluctantly she went down stairs to make tea only to find Eve in deep conversation with Jack, the only part of which Molly heard was Eve saying, ‘everything’s in place but be careful’, before they heard her and stopped talking.

Jack beamed at her, as Eve left the room for the waiting car outside.

She eyed him suspiciously, “What was that about?”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Oh, just security checks. Mr Holmes’ orders,” he said dismissively, “nothing for you to worry about.”

He patted her shoulder, leaving, as Sherlock entered, looking tense and uncomfortable, fidgeting with his suit and wearing a coat that was identical to the Belstaff that was hanging in her flat in London where he'd left it.

When she tried to slip her hands under his coat he pulled back, taking her hands instead to his lips. Kissing her goodbye.

“Don’t look so serious,” he pressed his lips against her fingertips, “I’ll be home before you know it.” It shocked him that he now though of home as wherever Molly was.

Curling her fingers around his she nodded and said with a heavy heart, “Goodbye Sherlock Holmes. Don’t forget the promise you made. I’ll,” she closed her eyes, “I’ll miss you.”

Her face lit with a bright warm smile that tried to hide her disquiet and her fears. But her body language, her eyes betrayed her.

One finger whispered along her cheek, before he placed his lips over hers in an almost chaste kiss, “Goodbye, Molly Hooper.”

Not knowing what else to say, he turned and walked away to the waiting car that would carry him away from her.

 

* * *

 

 

“So,” he said, shifting restlessly and uncomfortably in his seat as the car sped away from Sorrento, “where is Mycroft really?”

“I told you, Rome, he’ll see you there.” She hadn’t once taken her eyes off her mobile as she spoke.

“What game are you two playing?” His eyes bored into her downturned face, “Tell me.”

“He’s giving you and your little doctor some space, that’s all.”

“Space,” he laughed, “He has me on a leash; his minions have been watching us like prey for days, don’t give me that.”

“No really Sherlock, he gave instructions for you two to have privacy,” she did look up now and waved her Blackberry in front of him, “I read everything before it goes to him remember, there’s been no one reporting back.”

"You're sure?"

"Of course."

Pressing his fingers against his lips in thought, he realised that didn't make sense, Stapleton had been watch-

His body slumped and his eyes tightly shut, his mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ before he muttered angrily, "Stupid. _Stupid_."

She raised the glass partition between them and the driver keeping her voice low, the conversation private, “Sherlock? What? Tell me.”

“Where is my brother?” he pulled her phone from her, trying, but not succeeding, to restrain himself.

“I told you-”

“No Eve, the truth, I need the truth.”

“I can’t Sherlock, I'm under orders not to, you know what's he's like, he'll kill me. _Literally_.” Her words rendered meaningless by the concern growing on her face.

“You have to, we've been set up. It’s a trap." He said reaching for his phone and dialling as Eve did the same.

A bubble of panic swelling in his chest as two thoughts, two people, two names, competing simultaneously for his attention, became a cacophony of terror playing on a loop in his mind. Images of worst case scenarios so vivid they felt almost burned into his retinas.

 

* * *

 

After Sherlock left, Molly had tried to quiet her concern, to try to calm down by walking in the grounds, but nothing seemed to help. Nervously, she toyed with the edge of her cardigan as she looked out across the sea, wishing they'd talked before he’d gone to Rome.

His tone, his expression, the way he carried himself, everything about him, ever since the day before and their conversation about the man who’d shot him, had been wrong. His nerves were stretched thin; was it just about Rome and Blackwood, or was it something else?

The feeling that he was slipping away from her crushed her chest as she tried to breathe.

The morning before he told her he had no regrets, but what if now that had changed? When last night he had come back to bed it was obvious he'd been smoking and was clearly tense. Their love making had been different too; there had been an edge, a desperation to him that she hadn't understood, couldn’t read. Something unsaid saturated the space between them; thinking about what that could be made her stomach churn.

What she had felt so certain of only a day ago, now felt-

A shouting voice broke the silence of the garden just as she'd turned to walk back to the villa, Jack running toward her.

"Molly!" he took her roughly by the arm, his voice rigid, loud, "You have to come with me. Now."

"What? No! Jack, tell me what’s happened.” More confused than panicked, she didn't move until he pulled her with him as he began to run toward the driveway where a car was waiting, engine running, only then noticing the gun that was usually strapped to his belt was now in his hand.

"I've just has a call from Mr Holmes, there's been a threat to your safety, I'll explain on the way."

Reaching the waiting car Molly pulled away from him, yanking her arm out of his grip, a sudden instinct to protect herself washed over her, “I’m not going anywhere, until you tell me what’s happened.” Panicked thoughts of Sherlock flooded her mind only interrupted when she noticed a dark pool of blood by the car spreading out to reach where she now stood, her eyes following it to its source.

She stared at the dead man on the ground, one of the usual security team, there was a single bullet wound to his head. “Jack…” she gasped, shaking so much with shock that she almost didn't feel the sharp blooming pain of the hypodermic as it sank into her neck from behind.

The world began to spin around her, her vision clouding and her ears ringing; the last thing she knew before slipping into unconsciousness was Jack leaning over her, dark and sinister, punching her hard in the face and then bundling her into the car that immediately sped away.

 

* * *

 

Only one small private jet stood on the tarmac of the private airfield.

As Eve pulled up alongside the steps that led to the open door of the jet she reflexively checked her gun, and looked to Sherlock.

“Ready?” he asked.

A sharp nod in return, “Ready.”

She stepped out, leaving an on edge Sherlock waiting in the car, and walked up the steps; her finger on the trigger of the drawn gun that M. had given her on the very first day she was assigned to his detail.

Cautiously, she stepped aboard the small plane and peered into the dimly lit cabin. When she heard the sound of a gun cocking behind her she snapped, “For heaven’s sake Stevie, put that damn thing away before you hurt someone. Well,” she mused, “someone you shouldn’t.”

Still pointing the gun at her head, puzzled, “You’re Holmes’ assistant-”

“Oh, no flies on you,” she laughed, turning to him, “didn’t Vik tell you he was sending someone.”

“Vik sent you? What the hell…? Yeah, he said the driver, but…”

“You are as thick as shit. Just like he said,” she scowled pushing his gun away, “no wonder he didn’t trust you to get the job done by yourself.”

He took a step forward, his eyes narrowed, about to fire.

“I’m the driver you fucking moron,” she spat at him, shoving his gun out of her face, “well after I shot the other one that is. Sherlock realised something was amiss so I convinced him the actual driver was taking us in the wrong direction, and once we got the car stopped I got rid of him. That’s why we’re half an hour late… Didn’t you notice?”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“Are you fucking high again? Dear God Stevie, you really do have a death wish, don’t you.” She sighed heavily, repulsed and bored by him, “Anyway, the idiot is waiting in the car now for me to give him the all clear signal.”

He looked at her, incredulous, as she pulled out an iPhone from her suit jacket with her free hand and dialled, saying when the call was picked up, “Yes, it’s clear, there’s only the pilot here,” winking at a stunned Blackwood, “the driver was it, come at once. Hurry.”

Pressing the screen to end the call she said, “What about the others? Are Holmes and the girl secured yet?” When she was greeted with silence, she shouted training her gun on him, “Answer me you fucking bastard. I’m Nemchinov’s woman on the ground here, so you’d better fucking make sure that you don’t piss me the fuck off. He told me to end you if you fuck this up. So,” she drew a calming breath and stretched her neck, “speak, before I decide it’s easier to tell him I didn’t need you.” She said taking a step forward and pressing the barrel of her gun against his face.

“Alright, Fuck, take it easy. Yes, it’s all gone smoothly; shooting your passenger is the last piece.”

“Good,” she visibly relaxed, “good.”

Her head gave a small turn as the first footsteps fell on the metal stairs that led to the open door of the plane.

“Down,” she whispered to Blackwood, “we’ll wait until he’s inside.”

Reluctantly he obeyed, kneeling down between seats and out of sight.

“No one here? Are you sure…that can’t be right, I-” he drew a stunned breath and gasped her name, “ _Eve_.”

“Sorry Sherlock,” she said coldly, without a hint of remorse, her gun aimed at his heart, “but you’re no longer required, we've gotten what we needed.”

His eyes were wide in horror as she fired once, hitting her target’s chest, her aim precise; there was no margin for error. A stunned looking, pale Sherlock shouted, “Eve, no!” as the bullet hit and he collapsed to the floor; blood beginning to spread everywhere as he gasped and stopped breathing, heavy gurgling sounds rattled through his last breath, a small trickle of blood flowing from the corner of his mouth.

 _“What the fuck?_ _”_ Blackwood jumped up, tugging her around to face him, “What the fuck have you done?”

“You didn’t really think Vik would give you a second chance at this did you?” and then laughing she said, “My God, you really are an idiot, bloody naïve too if you think he’d trust you with this again. Your function from this point on is to do as I say, and bring me to Stapleton. That’s it,” she made a cutting gesture with her hand, “Do you understand?”

 _“Fuck you,_ _”_ he scowled, “I’m calling Vik before I go anywhere with you,” He looked at the lifeless body in the aisle of the plane and said pointing to Sherlock’s still form, “but first I’m making sure he’s dead, that bastard has a habit of not staying down.”

“Be my guest,” she said as Blackwood took Sherlock’s cold wrist to feel his pulse, “he told me to do the shooting if you were high again, so if you feel like explaining why I had to take over feel free.”

Nemchinov had been on the verge of having him shot last time he’d screwed up killing the smart arsed bastard, if it hadn’t been for Jack threatening to pull out of the deal if anything happened to his boyfriend, he was sure he’d have done it. And let’s face it, regardless of romantic entanglements Jack was a fucking professional; he wasn’t going to be exactly thrilled that his boyfriend couldn’t be trusted not to do lines of coke before such an important job, especially after he’d gotten Nemchinov off his back. No, the last thing he needed now was another fucking domestic over drugs.

The fucker was dead, the plan was half way there, that was good enough.

Blackwood dropped the pulseless wrist, “Fine,” he spat, “let’s go. We’re already running late,” standing to leave he paused and turned back to the body at his feet, firing his gun once at it.

 _“What are you doing?_ _”_ Eve hissed at him.

“I owed him,” he said as he gathered himself together, fresh blood seeping from Sherlock’s still form where the bullet had entered his shoulder, “fucking bastard almost got me killed.” He spat in fury at the bloodied body, then kicked it, hard, as he turned to leave.

“You really are a fucking amateur Stevie. Now move.” Pushing Blackwood out of her way and toward the exit, she stepped over the growing pool of Sherlock’s blood, making a disgusted ‘ugh’ sound, “These are Louboutin’s for Christ’s sake" wiping the blood from her shoes on the carpet as she left the plane, and not turning back to look at the man she been sent by his brother to protect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may seem a bit odd to some of you the I refer to Mycroft as M., but the story goes that Ian Fleming did in fact name his character M. in the Bond series in honour of Mycroft Holmes. 'Eve' is Miss Moneypenny's (M's girl Friday) first name!


	9. Lead me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for the wonderful, the amazing, MaybeItsJustMyType, who despite having a super busy and stressful week agreed to beta this chapter for me. K, you're such a darling, thank you for all your help :)
> 
> But it goes without saying that I tinkered with it after, so if you find mistakes they're all mine...

 

 

* * *

 

 

Three minutes twenty four seconds. That had been his previous record. A petulant child, a champion swimmer and a competitive brother. Granted, those had all been in childhood, but he was far from joking when he’d told John that he thought breathing was boring.

After three minutes and twenty eight seconds, the time it took between being shot by Eve and she and Blackwood stepping onto the runway, Sherlock gasped an enormous breath into empty, burning lungs; his chest spasmed and the carbon dioxide that now saturated his blood made his brain fuzzy. Rolling onto his side and gulping in huge choking breaths, he realised how much damage had been done.

This hadn’t been a complete disaster, but it hadn’t gone entirely to plan either.

When at last his muscles and breathing began to ease, he tentatively rolled again onto his back to assess the damage, every part of his upper body screaming in protest. In agonising pain he pulled the squash ball from his armpit – the trick repetitive but effective, spat out the blood capsule from between his teeth, and removed the empty bag of blood they’d collected from the now dead driver from under his shirt as he pressed gently against where the bullet had hit the lightweight Kevlar vest that Mycroft had sent that morning. Wincing in pain, he drew his fingers underneath the vest and across what he suspected was at least one broken rib. Her aim had been perfect, but reduced muscle and body mass since his last meeting with Blackwood meant that the impact at almost contact range had had an unexpected outcome. His breathing was ragged but not painful, a good sign; no puncture to his lung and although the injury would slow him down, it wouldn’t get in the way of what he needed to do next.

The real problem was going to be the bullet Blackwood had put through his left shoulder. It was through and through, relatively minor bleeding meant that the brachial artery hadn’t been hit and there was no damage to bone either. A simple injury, no vascular or structural damage, but there was hot burning pain and enough bleeding to necessitate a tourniquet and cause mobility issues. His already laboured breathing further hindered by the shock his body was now experiencing, and the kick Blackwood had landed before exiting the plane. Christ, it hurt.

But he was alive.

From the moment he had realised what he’d been missing all along, blinded by a false assumption about Nemchinov’s motive, everything had fallen into place. The pieces of the puzzle had coalesced into a concise picture of his folly. Clear at last.

Sherlock had never been the intended target; it had been Mycroft all along.

That’s why Nemchinov’s brother had been set on Sherlock all those weeks ago, he realised, to lure Mycroft out into the open.

It made perfect sense; he was untouchable in London, the entire weight of Her Majesty’s Secret Service stood behind and around him, but get him into neutral territory by, say, killing his baby brother and forcing him to leave the safety of his protection in Britain, he would be immediately more vulnerable. It had made no difference that Sherlock hadn’t actually died, the objective was achieved; Mycroft’s security as well as his emotional state had been compromised. Mistakes would be made that Nemchinov could take strategic advantage of. Mycroft Holmes, the most powerful man in Britain would be, by extension, the most valuable man in Britain.

And Molly, well Molly had been caught in the crossfire, placed there by two flawed men. He berated himself for having been so stupid as to think she had ever been safe with him.

In the end Stapleton had given it away; he’d watched them too closely. An assumption that Mycroft had instructed the surveillance, as was his M.O., and jealousy at the attention that he’d bestowed upon Molly made Sherlock blind to the fact that Stapleton was the only one of the minions watching with intent. It was Rome, Karachi and Cambridge all over again; throw someone he had feelings for into the path of a deduction and his steering mechanism failed.

When both his call to Molly, and Eve’s to Mycroft went unanswered he knew that, at last, he’d gotten it right. An attempt to stop their driver, who was now on route to the wrong airfield, had ended anticlimactically when the driver, faced with being shot, simply pulled over.

Once stopped, Eve had shot him anyway.

When he and Eve had returned to the villa, a tableau of blood stains, tyre marks and one white ballet flat had told him what had happened to Molly before they had even found the bodies of her driver and one of the agents that Eve had identified as Carter, part of the small team Mycroft had assembled to capture Blackwood. Sherlock’s eyes darted over the scene. Scuff marks on her shoe indicated a struggle, a small spray of blood –now cold and sticky but not completely dry, meaning it was barely ten minutes old - evidenced a blow to her head or face, an empty hypodermic needle had been crushed under the wheels of a car meaning that she’d been drugged, the single gunshot wound to Carter’s head told him it had been fast and without warning, there were no signs of a struggle – Carter had known and trusted the man who killed him, Stapleton perhaps, or Grant who was now missing; played out before him he saw Molly’s abduction and Stapleton’s ambush of Mycroft, Sherlock’s voice was raspy, his breathing tight when he explained his deductions to Eve. Molly had struggled, albeit feebly in her drugged state, Mycroft had not. CCTV surveillance had been turned off, the last images showed Sherlock and Eve leaving together.

Struggling to put his fear, his love, aside he forced himself to revisit the scene in his mind.

No trace of physical evidence suggested where they had been taken, but it was likely that they were together – more manageable for a small team - and unlikely, for now at least, that they were dead. Stapleton would have been acting with the help of no more than one or two accomplices, and Eve had already put a bullet through the head of one of them. The question then was where was the second agent, Grant, no trace of whom could be found at the villa. Was he a second accomplice or had he managed to escape and pursue the captives? Dangerous to extrapolate without evidence, Sherlock thought. Given the scene before them, it was likely that Blackwood would be waiting to ambush Sherlock at his destination.

But one thing was certain; he and Eve were now alone in this. If Mycroft’s inner circle had been compromised, as was likely if misinformation had been fed back to his brother, then they couldn’t ask for backup. Not knowing who to trust, meant that no one could be. Assumptions had already caused fatal errors; and misjudgements at this point would have catastrophic consequences for the brother he loved and revered and the woman without whom his life had no meaning.

The lives of those he held closest to his heart at stake.

His first instinct had been to go to a waiting Blackwood and attempt to take him by surprise; logistically impossible given the vantage point that he would have from the elevated position of the plane and what would most likely be an otherwise abandoned airfield. Eve had been the one to suggest that Blackwood may not know for sure who of Mycroft’s people was assisting them, and that perhaps he could be tricked into leading them to Molly and Mycroft. They’d reasoned, and rightly too, that Blackwood was the middleman between Nemchinov and Stapleton; Stapleton co-ordinating the betrayal of Mycroft, while Blackwood was kept relatively in the dark by the other parties, who were not likely to trust him given his previous mistakes. His instructions were most likely to kill Sherlock on sight, so Sherlock would have to appear to die before Blackwood had to chance to _actually_ kill him. A Kevlar vest was no use against a head wound – which, to ensure a kill shot, it would almost certainly be this time. So… Eve would have to get there first with a body shot. A risk, they both knew, but a necessary one if they were to have any chance of finding Molly and Mycroft before it was too late. It was likely that even if Eve shot first, Blackwood would still put a bullet into him, and that would only be after she managed to convince him that she was the plant. 

A flawed and dangerous plan, they knew; but the real risk he and Eve had taken in stepping onto the plane was that Blackwood would simply shoot them both in the head and be done with it.

Mycroft’s plan had been to remove Sherlock and Molly from the villa and wait there with Carter and Grant for Blackwood to make his move, which Mycroft had anticipated based on what was now clearly false intelligence. Nemchinov and Stapleton had played their hand perfectly. 

Clever, _clever_ thought Sherlock; Nemchinov had found each of their weakness and tailored his strategy accordingly. Mycroft blinded by the need to protect his little brother, and Sherlock by his inability to function at full efficiency around Molly. All he had to do was put Sherlock in danger and Mycroft would come running, the ever protective big brother, and distract Sherlock with jealousy and lust, base instinct diverting cerebral function, observation and deduction to a single point – the object of his desire.

His gut clenched when he imagined Molly’s vulnerable condition, now in the hands of what he could acknowledge to himself were violent mercenaries, while refusing to think of her falling into the hands of Nemchinov – a human trafficker. Mycroft had training, knew the risks of his chosen profession, but Molly, Molly was an innocent victim of her loyalty to a dangerous man.

Casting his mind back to the last time he had seen her, just mere hours ago, his stomach twisted in sorrow and fear. Memories of the last few days came unbidden to his mind, her warm smiles, her comforting presence. She had quietly and without conscious effort established herself as the centre of Sherlock’s very existence. To lose her now was unthinkable; to imagine the loss of the possibilities her tenderness and love had shown him made his chest ache. Self-loathing and shame filled him at the thought that he was the one to bring her into harm’s path. What he now knew for sure to be his romantic love for her, used as the weapon of her destruction; Molly paying the price for his recklessness, his stupidity.

Examining his behaviour toward her - his wanton disregard for her safety, his cruelty in taking love from such a fragile, gentle soul - he found himself lacking. Even if he recovered her now, alive and unharmed, he had failed her; all of his short comings exposed and laid before her, she would see him for who he truly was. How ridiculous he had been to think he deserved the love of a woman as extraordinary as Molly Hooper. The very thought of what he had done to her made his eyes sting and his throat swell painfully.

If he were granted a reprieve from this living hell, if she were found alive and unharmed he would see to it that her safety would be forever assured. He would show her the kindness he should have shown her days before and set her free, no matter what it cost him. He owed her that much.

Indulging his feelings of loss and terror instead of applying cold logic to the task at hand he was further jeopardising her safety, just like the selfish man he knew himself to be.

Time was running out as Sherlock began to will his body to submit to his control; the minute Blackwood showed up with Eve, Stapleton would know what they were up to unless he was also an idiot and she could convince him otherwise, but it didn’t seem likely that both of Nemchinov’s choices would have been so poor. What would happen at that point was unclear, but Eve was prepared to die protecting Queen and Country, as she had sworn to do, and for all intents and purposes Queen and Country was in the power of who ever had Mycroft Holmes in their hands.

On shaky legs Sherlock stood and made his way to the galley of the plane. Finding what he was looking for, a seat belt extender, he peeled his coat and blood soaked shirt from his body and strapped his arm with the makeshift tourniquet, the bleeding slowed as Sherlock redressed, his aching ribs making the task difficult. Throbbing pain from the bullet wound made his head fuzzy as he frantically searched his coat pockets for what he needed.

The screen of the iPhone in front of him swam in and out of view as he forced himself to concentrate; searching for the find my iPhone app he pressed the option for Molly’s phone, the one Eve now had in her possession.

Making his way from the plane to the car he and Eve had arrived in he waited for the app to begin transmitting.

 

* * *

 

 

A peaceful oblivion had taken her, but slowly returning consciousness brought with it realisation and fear. She was cold, very cold, the concrete floor beneath her rough against her already swollen cheek; the ringing in her ear and the crusted blood at the corner of her mouth and her nostrils meant the blow had been harder than the level of pain she felt in her drugged state would suggest.

A sense of unreality, almost an out of body experience, washed over her as she tried desperately to assess her injuries and situation. Attempts to move were unsuccessful, her first mistake was to think her lack of mobility and heaviness in her limbs was a residual effect of whatever had been in the syringe Jack had used on her. Frightening as that was, she soon realised a more terrifying scenario; she was chained with an iron ankle cuff to the wall of what appeared to be a windowless storage room. She had no idea where she was, but Molly was a pathologist, she knew the smell of death, and people had died in this room; the stench of it hung ominously in the air.

Darkness surrounded her, only a thin sliver of light made its way under the door, and adjusting her eyes to the prevailing conditions she could barely make out the shackle that held her in place. Tugging her foot, a mind numbing pain shot through her and she screamed. She felt her flesh tear away from her ankle, it was then that her olfactory senses returned and the smell of burning skin hit her; the bastard had soldered the cuff closed, no lock to break or pick, and had purposely taken no care to protect her from the flame. A thick syrupy fluid dripping down on to her foot accompanied the tearing skin, pus from blisters and probably blood, meaning infection had already set in. With no idea of how long she been unconscious, it was impossible to tell how much longer she had until the damage became irreparable or when sepsis would become an issue. Her heart rate was elevated as was her temperature, but without actually seeing the wound she had no idea if that had been a side effect of the drugs or something more sinister.

An inability to reach out and touch the wound had been initially put down to her body only slowly awakening, but now Molly realised the real threat – asphyxiation.

Her breathing was laboured, and as she lay face down on the floor she realised why. Tightly bound behind her back, her arms had been restrained in such a way that her lungs were restricted. She’d seen it half a dozen times in her morgue, car crash victims who survived the impact only to die from oxygen deprivation because they hadn’t been freed from the wreckage quickly enough, their position restricting lung expansion and causing death. It happened to prisoners sometimes too; she’d once given evidence in a case when an arrest had gone wrong and the prisoner died as a result of being held in the wrong position for too long. The way her arms were trapped mirrored that case almost exactly, bound wrists and strained shoulders, complicated by lack of mobility caused by use of a narcotic; how long she had before it was a real possibility was anyone’s guess. A quick catalogue of her other injuries all indicated mere discomfort and bruising; this was the one to worry about she knew.

Right. Only one thing for it. Get into a sitting position and try to work her arms free.

Rolling on to her back, Molly tried to pull herself upright on to her knees. Nausea and cold sweats accompanied her attempts to kneel; hot bile burned her throat as the room spun around her and she fell, hitting her head on the floor. Trembling from adrenalin and fear, she took a minute to get her breath back then pushed herself upward again, more successfully this time, the rough concrete scraped and gouged the delicate skin on her legs and arms causing them to bleed, but she was vertical at last and able to sit back on her heels. A better position, but still not good enough. _Shit._

“ _Jack,_ ” she shouted, costing her more breath than it should have, “ _Jack!_ ”

Nothing. No response.

An unnerving thought occurred to her then. She’d assumed she was being held by Jack, by someone. What if she were wrong though? What if she’d been just left here to die?

With Sherlock and Mycroft both in Rome there would be no one to miss her, no one would know. Even if Sherlock phoned, which was unlike anyway when he was in pursuit of the game, her not answering may not set off alarm bells, and even if they did, he was hours from the villa – and she was somewhere else now instead anyway. At least Sherlock was safe. At least he’d been-

Her heart lurched in her chest. Sherlock. Oh God, had they taken him too? Were the people who had taken him, shot him, were they the ones who had orchestrated this? Had they succeeded this time?

Was he dead?

Was she about to die too?

“Stop it, just, just stop it,” she choked hoarsely, “Sherlock is fine, he has to be, Mycroft would never let him out of his sight and I can do this, I am not going to die in this shithole. I fucking refuse to die here.”

Nobody was going down without a fight, she decided.

She took a shallow little breath. _Okay, let’s do this._

In the near darkness it was impossible to see anything that could be of use to her, but as her eyes adjusted she could make out the point where the chain from her ankle cuff met the wall. A rough metal plate, bolted to the wall, held the chain in place. Maybe if she could-

Quick paced footsteps outside of the door to the room where she was now being held were followed by a loud metallic clinking. Tumblers falling in the lock.

Pulling herself upright and bracing for whatever was about to happen, Molly squinted her eyes, the light that flooded in momentarily blinding her, but a familiar voice tsk tsked at her.

“Molly, Molly, Molly…tut, tut,” Jack murmured in a tone of mock fond exasperation, “you’ll have to be a good little girl, or I’ll have to shoot you up again.”

Plunging one hand into her hair, he pulled it sharply back, forcing her to look up at him from where she knelt, “Hmm, a bit bruised, nothing that won’t heal. But if you give me trouble,” he made a cutting motion across his throat with one finger, “you won’t make it out of here alive, do you understand?”

Her mouth set in a thin angry line, “If you’ve harmed Sherlock, Mycroft will kill you, he will hunt you down, and he will kill you.”

“No Molly,” Jack cried, shaking his head in disbelief, “what the hell is wrong with you?”

Releasing her hair, he pushed her back to the floor, “You’ve been fucking beaten up, drugged, abducted and are about to become a fucktoy for half the criminal population of Moscow, and you’re worried about fucking Sherlock? Are you terminally stupid?”

Stapleton’s long fingers gripped Molly’s chin, a cruel expression in his eyes; he bent over her as she twisted violently in her bonds, “You don’t get it, do you? Sherlock Holmes couldn’t give a fuck about you. You, darling, were entertainment while he was bored. That’s all.”

Molly’s pulse pounded in her temples as Jack walked away from her, leaving the room; the door wide open into a dimly lit hallway, she heard him open the door to another room, and enter. Her head fell back to the floor, and an anguished frustrated cry escaped her lips just as she heard Jack make his way back along the hall.

When he reappeared through the door, he carried a laptop under his arm. Perching his hip against a small table just inside the door about ten feet away from where Molly lay he set it down and switched it on. With his back still to her, he tapped at the keys saying, “He has a weakness you know? Short brunettes mostly, but he’s not that discriminating, especially when he’s high.”

Molly drew in a sharp, shocked gasp of air.

“Oh,” he laughed, “didn’t know about his coke habit did you?”

“Sherlock doesn’t have a, a,” she struggled with the words, “drug habit, he wouldn't do that to his brilliant mind.”

Turning to face her, he said in complete exasperation, “Dear God Molly, are you really that stupid?” returning to his laptop, “big brother does a good job of covering his tracks, literally and figuratively,” he snorted at his own joke, “the arrests, the stints in rehab, the overdose. And that doesn’t even include what the sick bastard got up to when he was at Cambridge. It’s amazing what family money can do. If he’d been some kid from a care home, like me, he’d have been just another statistic, dead or in prison.” Finding the video he’d been looking for, “Ah! There it is!”

Standing, he walked to her and looked down, “You have no clue who you’ve been screwing, do you? Well,” he clapped his hands together with one loud slap that sounded like a gunshot report, “let me enlighten you. Your junkie boyfriend bores easily, but you already knew that,” he glared down at her, “three things relieve it, coke, sex and adrenalin. Two of those things he didn’t have access to while under big brother’s watchful eye, and one he did – that was where you came in, in case you were wondering. Although to be fair it didn’t have to be you, he has resorted to screwing the hired help before,” leaning down, long fingers caressed her cheek; she snapped her head back pulling away, “you’ve met Mycroft’s assistant?”

Molly’s heart gave a dull thud in her chest before sinking. Eve’s familiarity with Sherlock, his lack of self-consciousness when she’d walked in on him in the shower. Her blood ran cold.

“Ahh, there it is,” Stapleton said in mock surprise, “you’ve finally got it. Acting a bit out of character wasn’t he? I really worried you’d dismiss him, put it down to his head injury – and really Molly, you’re a doctor, that _should_ have been your first instinct – or recognise it for the game that it was to him. But Christ, you were so easy to trick.”

So desperate for his love, his affection, so afraid that she could have lost him forever, she’d ignored all logic and believed him. Stapleton’s words rang true; how obvious it all was when someone laid it out before her. She felt cold, numb; her insides rearranged, her head and stomach swimming.

She’d been a convenient distraction for a bored man. That was all. It had all been too good to be true, she should have known. _How could she have been so foolish_ , she wondered, _as to believe that Sherlock had come to care for her?_

“Now, if you give baby brother one of those three things, he seems to lose all interest in the other two – your ex, Moriarty, had that figured out a long time ago. Irene Adler had him so fucking high on hormones that he almost sold out the whole country to get laid, and this one,” he pointed to the pretty brunette on the screen of the laptop, “well, this one was your predecessor, and not by long either. The reason he got caught in Rome was because one look from her and his cock took over all of his brain function. Beautiful, isn’t she?” he mused, then looking Molly up and down with contempt, “but like I said, he’s not always so discriminating.”

Shame and embarrassment, fuelled by his taunts and her foolishness burned in her as he continued, his words cutting like broken shards of glass, “Plain Molly Hooper, with the dress sense of a colour blind toddler,” his cold grey eyes studied her, his hand waved dismissively at her, “You were so ridiculous, I fucking despised you from the moment I met you. Simpering and fawning over a psychopath who didn’t give a shit about you. You’re fucking pathetic,” turning to leave the room he said, “all it took was a few words of encouragement from me and you did exactly what you were supposed to do, you kept him distracted enough that he didn’t figure out what was going on right under his nose.”

Standing with his hand now hovering across the track pad, “I wanted to kill you, you know? People like you, stupid and weak, you deserve to die. But,” he sighed, “Nemchinov has other plans for you, and I’m going to keep him sweet until I get what I want, so you’re his.” A cold smile passed over his lips, “Do you know what he is Molly?”

She sat frozen on the ground, no indication that she’d even heard him.

“Human trafficker. Prostitution mostly,” at that she did look up, “and he’s developed an unhealthy interest in you. But when he gets bored with fucking you, you better pray for death, because the alternative Molly is a life time of drugged rape. So!” he said cheerfully, “to get you in the mood, I’m going to play you a little film, one from my private collection. I believe you know one of the participants.”

At that he hit play, and left her alone in the dark again.

A grainy image appeared on the screen, of a couple, naked and kissing passionately in bed. Not a home movie, she knew he’d been secretly filmed, but that didn’t make it any easier. She tried to look away, but her eyes were drawn back to the expressions Sherlock made, the smiles he gave the woman.

Closing her eyes tightly, she had no choice but to listen to the sounds she had thought he had made only for her, wrung from his body by another woman.

 

* * *

 

To the casual observer Mycroft Holmes might have looked very much like a banker or an accountant taking a business meeting. He sat relaxed, cross legged, and impeccably dressed in a three piece suit, his countenance calm, his hands folded in his lap; the only thing betraying his current situation was the gun trained on him by his captor.

A small, thin smile graced his lips when Stapleton re-entered the room.

“Now,” Jack said almost cheerfully, “where were we before that snivelling little cunt interrupted us?”

“I believe I was complementing your flair for the dramatic. Dank, cold, dark; a single bulb casting a dim circle of light around your hostage. Quite the sinister atmosphere you’ve managed to create,” Mycroft replied in a derisive tone, making a bowing motion with his head, “well done.”

“Genetically encoded, Mycroft. Drama is a familial trait.” Stapleton gave a wry, crooked smile.

“How would you know? Abandoned at birth, were you not?” came the reply, low and cold.

Stapleton lowered his weapon and took a seat opposite his former boss. Mirroring Mycroft’s position, he crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap over his gun.

“You and Sherlock, you really aren’t as clever as you think you are y’know. I’ve been under his nose for weeks, yours for years,” his tone was almost one of amusement, “but you never saw me. Arrogant and conceited, both of you,” raising his gun again to point at Mycroft for emphasis, “and that’s been your undoing.” A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, “You know he’s dead already?”

Mycroft’s gaze didn’t falter despite the helpless paralysis that overtook him and ice water that flooded his veins. If Jack was lying, he was making a damn good job of it, Mycroft thought. A man not blessed with faith or humility, he prayed that his obstinate little brother had done as he asked and begged that Eve had lived up to the trust that he had placed in her abilities.

Stapleton made an exaggerated gesture to check his watch, “Almost half an hour ago now. There was a little welcome party waiting for him aboard his plane.”

“That’s impossible,” his tone neutral, his heart anything but, “I had agents waiting for him at the airfield, no one could have gotten past them.”

“No Mycroft,” he shook his head and tutted, “no one could, which is why I paid the driver to take him to a different air strip, the one where Stevie was waiting for him. The text came while I was seeing to your onward travel plans. Confirmed this time too, shot twice and quite dead I’m assured.”

The hairs on the back of Mycroft’s neck stood up, his heartbeat pounded in his temples.

Stapleton rose, and circled around Mycroft, just outside of the dim light cast from the single over-head bulb, utterly at ease, his face barely visible in the dimness beyond. The shadows that played across his features made him grotesque. “And guess what’s about to happen to you?”

“I never guess.”

“Well then,” still circling his captive, his expression depicted an air of self-satisfied confidence, “let me fill you in.” Coming to a stop behind him, he rested his gun against the nape of Mycroft’s neck. “You and the whore in the next room are about to take a little trip. Moscow.” He bent down and put his lips against Mycroft’s ear and whispered, “I hear it’s lovely this time of year.” Resuming his lazy meandering around the room, he continued matter-of-factly, “of course you won’t get much time to enjoy it, I estimate you’ll last five to seven weeks before you’re dead. And make no mistake big brother, you will die.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft replied almost pleasantly, “Nemchinov wouldn’t risk killing me, he’ll attempt to trade me for other commodities, imprisoned comrades perhaps, or state secrets, he’s a businessman, not a vengeful fool, he won’t risk the ire of the British government raining down upon him.”

Jack laughed with genuine amusement, “You see, I told you. I told you that you weren’t as clever as you think. He doesn’t want to trade you, he wants to torture you. He’ll get as much information out of you as he can, and then he’ll kill you. You’re worth nothing to him alive, governments don’t pay for hostages,” he glanced at Mycroft and shrugged his shoulders, “you know that Mycroft, no matter how important they think they are. He’ll get as much saleable information out of you as he can, and then I get to put a bullet through your head.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Mycroft’s voice was laden with contempt, “he’d never allow that. My life will be of value to him.”

“On the contrary,” Stapleton retorted, “he’ll make millions selling what he can extract from you, let alone the commission that other gangs will pay for taking you out of the picture and sending the secret service into disarray – you _are_ the British government after all – with you gone the Eastern and Central Europeans can finally get a real foot hold in London. Do you know how much the bounty on your head is worth to the gang that takes you out? Not to mention how much more profitable his own operations will be without your interference. Add it all up and it comes to quite a nice bundle,” his meandering came to a stop directly in front of Mycroft, he placed a tender hand on the seated man’s shoulder, “and don’t think for one minute that he doesn’t hold you just as responsible for his brother’s death as he does Sherlock. So.” Returning to his seat, “He and I have a common interest; he wants you, and I want you dead, so we’re helping each other out. He needed access to you and I need to see to it that Stevie and I aren’t implicated in this whole thing.”

“You care that you would be implicated in mine and Sherlock’s disappearance?” a practiced air of detachment in his voice.

“Not your disappearance, your murder. Nemchinov’s involvement gives me plausible deniability, leaves me a free man without any nasty rumours about how you both died. That’ll just leave Daddy and Mummy Holmes to deal with,” he made a sad face and shook his head slowly, “old folks can be so careless, they leave the gas on then turn on a light switch, and BOOM!!”

“What purpose would that serve? Why involve Father and- _Oh_ ,” he breathed, “ _Oh of course_. Father’s affair must have resulted in an unknown child.”

“I gave you a fair chance, I warned you didn’t I? Told you who I was, spelled it out for you. ‘ _We will each mourn our brother’_ the note I pinned to DiPandi said when Stevie shot Sherlock the first time, but did you listen? Did you even try? So fucking caught up in that little junkie shit, playing the concerned big brother, when none of you ever gave a fuck about me.”

“How pedestrian, revenge-”

“Wrong again big brother. Honestly, are you so obtuse?” he demanded, he didn’t even try to mask the disgust in his voice, “Money Mycroft, you have it and I want it. The estate, the land, the houses, the trust funds, I reckon between the four of you it comes to sixty million pounds, give or take. I’ve been planning it for years, and finally it’s here, the culmination of all my hard work. Your family owes me, and now I’m collecting. Your deaths will be my coup de grâce.”

A text alert caught Stapleton’s attention, “Ah! Good news brother dearest, Stevie and the driver are here so we’ll be hitting the road to Moscow,” a gleeful glint in his eye, unable to supress his excitement, “and I’ll finally get what’s owed to me.”

He shouted through the door to the man waiting there to go outside and let his boyfriend in, in his excitement he didn’t hear a smirking Mycroft say, his voice dangerously composed and even,

“That you will.”

 

* * *

 

The last time she had engaged in fieldwork she’d been a fresh faced recruit on what was just her fourth assignment.

It had gone badly wrong.

The only survivor from her team, inexperience had led to mistakes and three good men lost their lives in the resulting blood bath. Captured by those they’d been sent to kill, she freed herself by dislocating both her shoulders to manoeuvre out of the bonds that held her. Managing to reset her left shoulder, but not the right, she shot two of her captors with her non dominant hand and recovered the files that had been the object of the operation.

The resulting inquiry had found her blameless in the affair and had brought her to the attention of Mycroft Holmes.

Called to M’s office, she was asked where she saw her future lie, her first reaction had been to ask for desk duty, at least temporarily, as her immediate lust for adventure had been quelled by recent events.

“I believe I can offer you a happy medium. I require a personal security detail,” he pushed a gun across the desk toward her, “and you my dear have more potential that any recruit I’ve seen in years,” a smile that warmed his entire countenance graced his lips, “welcome to my team.”

With her heart beating wildly in her chest, she held that same Sig Sauer P229 by her side as she and Blackwood exited their car outside of the entrance to a small disused boat yard barely five miles from Sorrento.

The game was almost up; she would either get a chance to take Blackwood and Stapleton out, once he’d gotten them through the perimeter gate, or be taken out herself. A plan to shoot Blackwood the minute he’d opened the lock and take possession of his phone, using it to lure Stapleton out into the open and away from Mycroft was the best she could do without an option to call for reinforcements. But what she hadn’t counted on was Stapleton exercising enough good judgement to keep Blackwood in the dark about the security code.

A text to let Stapleton know they were there was about to bring the guard, an unknown party, to the gate to let them in.

Bracing herself, she decided the guard would have to be taken out first; he would be prepared for a challenge and therefore the greatest threat. Blackwood would be caught by surprise, she hoped, coke slowing his reactions; not giving him time to draw his holstered gun, both kills should take less than two seconds – an age in terms of this type of situation.

Her muscles tensed, her mind deliberately cleared, readying herself for a quick assessment then reaction.

But when the door opened, surprise at the man she saw approaching caused a split second hesitation and he drew his weapon a millisecond before she could.

Firing once and with precision, from a distance of over thirty feet, Grant silently hit his target between the eyes, instantly killing Blackwood, the back of his head blown away and the contents sprayed across the gravel pathway.

His feral grin gleamed at a relieved Eve, “I was wondering when the cavalry would show up,” he opened the gate to let her in saying, “hurry, we don’t have much time. This is a lot messier than he expected it to be.”

“He?”

“M.” he said simply, already making his way back to the building he came from, “Come on, Nemchinov’s people are already here and they’re getting ready to move. Stapleton’s expecting his bitch Stevie any second, and when that doesn’t happen the shit will hit the fan.”

Eve laughed bitterly as she broke into a jog behind Grant, “I have a feeling it already has.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Play me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a favour to ask of you all, indulge me in something please??
> 
> The last two words of this chapter are a link to youtube so that you can hear what Molly hears. I honestly think it's an important part of this chapter, so I'd really love it if you can make an old fic writer happy and click on the link - you'll obviously need the volume on and internet access.
> 
> I've once again been blessed to have the gorgeous and amazing MaybeItsJustMyType beta this chapter for me, she earned her stripes on this one folks. K my darling, Thank You!!

* * *

 

 

“What’s our status?”

Sinking down to her hunkers beside Grant, they huddled at the entrance of the building; small and shed like, it was the only one still intact in the derelict ship yard. She silently cursed her choice of footwear as she slipped her shoes off; heels were too noisy, too unstable, for what they needed to do, her stockinged feet would have to do when navigating the gravel paths. _Fuck._

She looked up to the heavens; the sky began to darken as a storm rolled in from across the sea.

“Two of Nemchinov’s people are on the boat,” he pointed to a small vessel docked at the only intact jetty, old and disused but still standing unlike the others that had all collapsed into the sea long ago; two hulking and well-armed men paced on the deck, “there was a third, inside, but he’s been dealt with. Stapleton doesn’t know it yet but I took him out quietly when I got here. There’s no one else; Stapleton is armed and alone with the Chief – no immediate danger there though, if the Russians are here it’s because Stapleton is just a delivery boy, he won’t risk Nemchinov’s fury by harming him - and there’s a woman held in a separate room, she’s been unconscious pretty much for the whole thing from what I could determine,” his eyes skimmed the yard constantly fearing discovery as they spoke, “Carter was in on it, the Chief knew he had a mole because there was something off about the intelligence reports he was getting, Carter had a professional history with Blackwood – well we both did, that’s why he chose us for this. I don’t know what gave it away but just before we arrived at the safe house the Chief gave me the signal to retreat and -”

“Jesus, _you left him there?!_ ” Disbelief and exasperation were undisguised in Eve’s voice.

“Have you tried arguing with him?” Grant said with and air of resigned indignation, “Anyway, it was part of his plan. He shot Carter himself and waited to be ambushed, he was expecting Blackwood but not Stapleton so he surrendered,” he gave her an amused look, “SIS training 101.”

“Fastest way to infiltrate enemy territory…” she parroted back, day one, lesson one, yes, but Jesus, not when you’re the head of MI6 and you haven’t engaged in field work for almost two decades.

“Yeah,” he said tonelessly, “surrender. He wanted Blackwood, and when that wasn’t on offer… I’m no expert on Mycroft Holmes, that’s your department, but I think he was either trying to deflect attention away from his brother, or go as deep as possible to find those responsible for what happened in Rome.”

“Both, probably,” she sighed, M could never think rationally when it came to Sherlock, and had the frustrating habit of never sharing the entirety of his plan with others until events had resolved themselves and he could recite his deductions and contrivances to a spellbound audience. He did so love to be dramatic.

“Blackwood was waiting for us at the air strip; I managed to fool him-”

“I figured as much when I saw you two at the gate.”

“- but he shot Sherlock.”

_“Shit.”_

“Yeah,” pulling it from her pocked, she swiped her thumb across the screen of Molly’s phone, still no message or call from her charge, “I’ve no idea how seriously he’s been hurt.” Mycroft was going to have her arse for this, she knew, he’d trusted her with the single most precious thing in the world to him, and she had left Sherlock behind, injured and bleeding out.

“So we can’t count on him? It’s just the two of us?”

“Looks that way.”

“Right, we’d better move then. Take out the two Russians, disable the boat, fast as we can. Then deal with Stapleton. Yeah?”

Blowing a deep breath from between pursed lips, “Yes. Yeah. Okay.” The ship yard was an open space, barely any cover for a stealthy attack on the boat, Nemchinov’s men were both still on deck and still clearly armed. Eve’s entrance to the yard had been hidden by the building they were crouched at now, but once they left the relative safety of the position they now occupied speed and skill were all they had going for them, the element of surprise would only be theirs if they were very, very, lucky. And today had not been a lucky day.

Pulling Molly’s phone from her pocket, her fingers danced across the screen as she messaged Sherlock with their location, and as much information as she could in the scant seconds before she and Grant began to formulate their plan of attack.

 

* * *

 

As the car he was driving rolled to a stop next to the one Eve and Blackwood had used, a text alert chimed.

Molly’s phone. Eve.

She had passed safely through the gate aided by Grant, and was now dealing with the irritating complication of Nemchinov’s emissaries on board the vessel that would take Molly and Mycroft clandestinely out of Italian waters.

That greatly simplified his priorities; Mycroft being Eve’s meant that Molly could be his.

His mind had been flooded with obsessive thoughts of her; a never ending reel of images flashed before him, assailing his mind, overwhelming his senses. Scenarios ending in her death playing over and over until he thought his heart might just stop beating from the sheer _agony_ those thoughts caused. The intensity too much to bear and at the end of his rope he longed to lose himself in her, to turn the clock back and run away with her before she’d been schooled so effectively in the dangers of a man like Sherlock Holmes.

Time stretched out endlessly as he followed the app to where he now was, fruitlessly searching himself for the cold logic and reason that the task before him required. Compromised cognitively, emotionally and physically his chances of success were limited. He estimated that odds they would all three survive were two to one, at best. No matter; there was an understanding, tacit in their chosen careers, that he or Mycroft might die but that would not be Molly’s fate. He would not allow it.

Events had spiralled far enough out of control; he knew he had to stop - thoughts fuelled by despair couldn't help Molly, he had to begin to think like himself again. She needed help from a clear head, not a wounded heart. 

Blackwood had been shot. Too kind and quick a death Sherlock thought as he patted the body at the gate down for weapons, removing a gun from its holster he checked the chamber - 3 bullets left, it would have to be enough. Eve had left the gate unlocked; a good thing too, the drive had done nothing to ease the pain from his broken ribs and his shoulder wound had bled with every gear change, every turn of the steering wheel, there was no way that he could have climbed the perimeter fence. His physical condition was deteriorating and he was going to need medical attention sooner rather than later. Speed being of the essence, he watched as Eve and Grant whispered, huddled together, then he slipped through the open door of the building where he was sure Molly was held.

 

* * *

 

 

Time had lost all meaning in the confines of what she now thought of as her cell.

Thoughts were becoming more fractured, disorganised; it was possible only minutes had passed, but she had no way of knowing if it had been hours. Equally worrying, her pain had begun to recede, all she felt now was a distant reminder of the stress her body had been placed under. Not a good sign, she knew.

Oxygen deprived, her breathing growing shallower by the minute, Molly listened as the video Stapleton loaded began again, playing on a loop. Attempts to free herself had been in vain, and had cost more breath than she could spare. Her spirit unbroken but her body unable to fulfil the promise to survive that she had made. The faint glow cast by the image on the screen before her dimming as her vision darkened and the world around her began to seem very far away.

When the door handle fell and a tall figure appeared in silhouette against the dim light that filtered through the narrow opening, she held herself steady as dread filled her stomach; either she would suffocate soon or was about to be sent on her way to God only knew what fresh hell. Relief, overwhelming and all-consuming flooded her heart when she finally realised just who it was that had slipped through the unlocked door.

Materialising from the darkness, Sherlock knelt and gathered her in his arms, pulling her limp rag-doll like form awkwardly into his lap as he held himself stiffly. Unable to speak, she heard him whisper her name, “Molly. Molly my angel. Please, talk to me?” and tell her in a voice broken with emotion that everything would be alright, she felt his touch, gentle on her face as he trembled softly, one large hand cradling her head against his chest – the warmth there a blessing to the bone deep cold of her body as she leaned back against him. Then gliding feather like long fingers swiftly over her body he assessed her injuries, cataloguing her wounds in a barely audible whisper as he went, his tone concerned and fearful, before carding lovingly through blood matted hair; and as her eyelids fluttered closed in relief, she saw his tear stained face above her, ragged and exhausted, stormy silver eyes looked into hers as he pleaded with her for forgiveness in a tone underpinned by heartbreak and anger, his fingers delicate against the rope on her wrists and forearms as he untied her.

Her arms falling free, he rubbed her suddenly tingling skin in an attempt to restore circulation, and as the sharp pain of renewed blood flow gripped her she gasped for air, each breath a huge effort, but with it came the realisation that he had come for her. That he was, _they were_ , safe.

“Molly?” he whispered, profound relief written in every line of his body, “you’re going to be alright.” Soft lips pressed to hers in a not-quite-kiss, his damp cheek rested against her forehead. An impossible, treacherous hope began to consume him that maybe, just maybe, everything would be fine. The fear that had held his chest in a vice grip slackened. Now that he was here in her presence, could see the joy in her eyes for him, suddenly it seemed like all might not be lost.

“Sherlock?” she whispered, her voice rough and breathless; looking at him through glassy, confused eyes she saw that he was pale and dishevelled, his usually smooth and fluid movements marred, awkward and jerky with pain.

“Can you breathe?” A painful trembling in the arm that supported her gripped him, but still he held her close.

“Y-Yes,” swallowing weakly, her lungs burning, pins and needles in her arms now excruciatingly painful, “it’s getting easier, I think.” A wanting, loving hand pressed to his chest.

“Listen to me Molly, I don’t have much time,” drawing her closer still, his voice low and rough against her skin, he looked at the long, heavy chain that tethered her to the wall, “I can’t get you out of the cuff, you’ll have to stay here-”

“ _What?_ No, no, no, don’t you dare leave me here Sherlock,” she whipped her head weakly from side to side in protest, her fingers clenched around the lapel of his blood soaked coat, “Don’t you dare-”

“Shush, shush, shush,” he put a gentle finger over her parched, dry lips, before running his thumb across her knuckles, his heart beat in the base of his throat, if only she knew how desperately he wanted to stay by her side, “There’s no way to free you without alerting Stapleton to my presence. I have to stop him, Molly look at me,” whispering and cupping her face in his hand, holding her as though she were porcelain, delicate and easy to shatter, “you’re not safe until he’s gone, and I only have a small window of opportunity before he figures out something’s wrong,” easing her up into a sitting position, he ran his right hand up and down her still tingling arms, leaning forward, his gaze earnest and constant, “Do you understand?”

Jerkily nodding, tears brimming in her eyes, her breath hitched when she said, “Yes.”

Pulling back to look at her, his face lit with a broad genuine smile, emotion and pride made his voice husky and tight, “That’s my brave girl.” Removing the gun he’d taken from Blackwood’s body at the perimeter gate from his coat, he pressed it into her hands, “Have you ever used one?”

“Yes,” she snuffled, and then registering his surprise, “John taught me to shoot after… well, Jim, and the kidnappings and the bombs, in case, in case Jim came back for me.”

The swell of affection for his friend, the gratitude he felt for John’s kindness, crushed Sherlock’s chest and for a moment he almost couldn’t breathe for missing him.

“Good. Good.” Was all he could manage to say, his throat constricting, “You’ve got three bullets. I want you to aim it at the door and shoot anyone who tries to enter, no hesitation. Okay?”

“But, what if-” she started.

“I’ll call out, let you know if it’s me, otherwise shoot. Yes?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock brushed his lips against her hair and let them rest there for just a moment, before he dragged himself from her, “I will be back for you. Promise.”

Raw and worn thin by the pain he was in; he was light headed when he stood. Blood began to flow freely down his left arm once again, dripping now from his fingertips despite the makeshift tourniquet, as the bullet wound reopened from the exertion of pulling Molly up to a sitting position. The world swam around him, his vision dimming and ears ringing. For a moment he was still, trying desperately to regain control of his traitorous transport; when at last he felt he could, he walked to the door.

“Can you… can you please turn off the video before you leave,” her voice hesitant and tiny, huge dark eyes glistened with unshed tears, “Please?”

For a brief moment the world stopped turning as for the first time since entering the room his focus shifted from Molly, his breath leaving him in a giant whoosh, and the ache in his chest roaring back into life with renewed force. He’d know of its existence, Serafina – how foolish he’d been to interpret her name as angel, when really it had meant serpent – had used it as proof that the man she was offering for sale was a very much still alive Sherlock Holmes.

Lonely, desperately so, and craving human contact, he’d missed those he cared for so viscerally it had made his chest ache. Unable to admit, even now and only to himself, the ferocity of that too great loneliness had almost driven him in to the darkness that had once consumed him in his youth. The pain of being alone too much for him to bear and frantic for the longing in his gut to _just end,_ he’d succumbed to the human instinct for companionship and allowed himself to have what he foolishly believed was the lesser of two evils – a woman who had seemed to care for him, but who in the end had drugged him and auctioned him off; sold to the highest bidder.

Now here his stupidity, _his weakness_ , was laid out for Molly to see. The wounds it caused opening afresh, bleeding.

At least it was now out in the open; his pitiless heart reminded him that he would never be able to disguise himself as a decent man after this, she would know he was undeserving, worthless, contemptable, disgusting. There would be no hiding from it ever again, she now knew the worst of his failings and he would have to live with the consequences of his myriad weaknesses. As if she needed further proof of his potential to harm her, there it was. His pulse raced and his heart clenched sickeningly beneath his ribs; he had ruined things with Molly months before they’d even begun.

A distant rumble of thunder in the autumn skies outside brought him back from the memories he had travelled to, her face lit by the flash of lightning that preceded it.

“Molly, I…” he began, his voice distressed, catching on words that he had no ability to say. Sudden heaviness behind his eyes and in his ears were changes in barometric pressure from the approaching storm, he told himself, denying the truth.

“It – it…” she bowed her head and stared sightlessly at the gun in her hands, hating herself for how small, how weak her voice sounded to her own ears, “Not now, there isn’t time for this now, you said so yourself. Please, just turn it off.”

Despite the darkness and the shadows that fell across her downturned face he could see written there the loss of whatever they had shared, whatever affection or closeness there had between them was gone. She had dismissed him, and he had only himself to blame for that. There would be no coming back from this; the loss bearable only because he knew she’d be better off without him.

Sherlock’s gaze fell from Molly to the floor, his downcast eyes full of shame and self-loathing. Weary to the bone and in lieu of suddenly becoming a good, decent man, one who could ask her for forgiveness, tell her of his regrets, he pulled himself up to his full height; rigid and cold, he imitated the air of an indifferent, unfeeling man. His face devoid of expression and his posture radiating distance, he did as she asked and drew back. Heavy silence hung in the air that crackled with electricity from the storm brewing in the skies above them. Upset, despondent but trying so hard to be himself, he left without uttering another word, his mind confused and his heart pounding erratically, thumping, breaking.

 

* * *

 

Hiding in plain sight, that was the phrase, wasn’t it? From the moment she and Grant realised they stood no chance of covertly boarding the small vessel, they decided to be bold.

A honey trap had started this whole mess, and now seemed like their best chance for ending it. There was no way to approach unseen, so best to just walk up to them, out in the open as though she had every right to be there.

Storm clouds had begun to gather overhead, and in the distance the first rumble of thunder echoed above them. Best just to get on with it then, before the rain came and interfered with their plan.

Tossing her jacket aside, Eve slipped back into her high heels, undid the buttons of her shirt far enough down so that her breasts were mostly on display, and ripped the small slit at the knee of her skirt high enough to expose a shapely thigh, hoping she would offer enough of a distraction to let Grant approach unseen. Tousling her hair, she wet her lips and shoved her Sig into the waistband of her skirt at the small of her back.

Grant smiled, his eyes soft and amused, “Don’t get me wrong I’m hoping this works, it’s just if it does I really need to apologise for my entire gender, we’re all idiots!”

“Not all of you,” she winked flirtatiously, “but I’m guessing the ones who think ‘ _Mob Henchman’_ is a good career choice are. Right,” she sucked in a steadying breath, as his shoulders heaved with a supressed chuckle, “if they shoot, the game’s up anyway – there’s no silencers on their guns, so you may as well just return fire, eliminate them as quickly as you can and make an attempt to recover M, leave me, I can take care of myself; if they don’t, come up on the port side from the rear and take the one with the blue sweater, I’ll take the one in sunglasses. Signal?”

“How’s your Russian?” he smirked, when she waved her hand in a so-so gesture, “How about привет моряк ?”

“Oh, you are kidding?! _‘Hello Sailor’??”_

“Not even a bit,” he smacked her bum in a playful taunt, “go on then, off you go. Shake what the good Lord gave you.”

“If we get out of this alive, I’m going to kill you for that,” she smirked a crooked little smile at him, she liked a man who wasn’t afraid to take the mickey out of her in a life or death situation, “I have a licence to kill you know, and M likes me well enough to cover it up anyway.”

“If we get out of this alive, I’m taking you to dinner to say sorry,” he extended his hand and taking hers he gave it a hearty shake, meaning it genuinely, “Deal?”

“Deal.”

 _Well_ , she laughed to herself, _at least I get to keep my heels on._

And with that Eve wiggled her way toward the Russian sailors.

 

* * *

 

Stealthily, Sherlock moved along the corridor toward the sound of his brother’s voice. With his gun held at the ready and his nerves humming with the adrenalin pumping through his veins, he approached the barely open doorway. By some miracle he had survived the day, far from unscathed but here none the less, and so had those he loved. The last task now to put an end to Stapleton and retreat to higher ground.

Shadows crossing the scant illumination that escaped through the crack of the open door and the acoustics of the conversation within made it only a small deductive leap to surmise it was just the two of them within – Mycroft and his captor.

Stapleton was pacing, currently with his back to the door, probably less than four feet inside, Mycroft most likely sitting and facing the doorway. He blessed his musician’s ear; the low rumble of conversation in a concrete lined room may as well have been a radar image to him.

Leaning heavily against the wall he braced himself. Were he to have a hope of killing Stapleton before he would have a chance to discharge his own weapon, Sherlock’s timing would have to be split second accurate. Chances of that were slim at best. A good shot under normal circumstances, he was by now bleeding heavily and his vision was dimming. The hand that held the gun was trembling, his emotional state playing a part in his inability to regain control over his body. He was compromised in every sense of the word. In the scant seconds since he had rested against the wall a small pool of blood had begun to accumulate beneath him, on the brink of collapse he took unsteady breaths trying desperately to bring his mind back on line.

When at last he felt he could move again he made the decision. It was now or never. Eve and Grant may not be successful, Molly and Mycroft’s only chance could bleed out within minutes if his wound ripped any further so bracing himself he waited until his now ringing ears told him that Stapleton’s pacing form had its back to the door.

In as smooth a motion as his distressed body could manage, Sherlock slipped close to the doorway, and peering through Sherlock raised one brow when he caught Mycroft’s eye. A sharp but almost imperceptible intake of breath escaped his brother before he blinked quickly once. A lightning fast unspoken language they had used since they were boys. A yes.

Readying his gun Sherlock pushed the door open with shaking fingertips just as a monologuing Stapleton turned in his path around his half-brother, his face contorting with malice and anger when he registered the presence of the figure in the doorway.

Time slowed to a fraction of normal speed; Sherlock fired as Stapleton simultaneously twisted and raised his gun. Too late he realised he had not compensated for his weakened strength and his aim was too low. An intended head shot instead catching his target’s shooting arm.

The force of the shot sending the gun in Stapleton’s hand spinning across the floor as he advanced on Sherlock before he could fire again, the chaotic scene ending in everything coming together at once as Sherlock fell to the ground under Stapleton’s weight when they both scrambled for the fallen gun, his grasp too weak as Stapleton took hold of the weapon again. Pinned down and trapped by Stapleton, there was a dull crack and pressure against Sherlock's lung as his broken rib was displaced.

With his knee Stapleton crashed down on Sherlock’s wrist, the gun he held released under the crushing blow grabbed by Stapleton and immediately pressed to Sherlock’s head.

 _“NO!”_ The shout from behind startling in its urgency, “Don’t shoot,” plaintively, and with fear coursing sharply through his veins, “please.”

Still holding the gun to Sherlock’s head but turning to look at Mycroft, Stapleton spat, “Now why _the fuck_ would I not?”

The storm outside finally reaching them, lightning bright and alien followed with a loud crack of thunder, the report ringing in their ears.

“Because you’re trapped,” almost breathless, tentatively he rose as Stapleton cocked the gun he was holding, the barrel held firm on sweat dampened skin, “If Sherlock has survived that means Blackwood has not,” Stapleton sagged against the body beneath him instantly knowing that to be true, the hand pressing the gun to Sherlock’s head visibly shook, “and it’s likely my security team are at this moment on their way here, perhaps have already arrived,” Mycroft gave him an appraising glance, “your options then are limited. Kill us both and you still won't inherit a single penny because Nemchinov will kill you for failure to deliver his prize, or let my brother and his doctor go and I’ll go with you willingly. You’ll still receive your commission from our Russian friend with the added bonus that you’ll live to enjoy it.”

"You're lying, no one else is here or they'd have come instead of him." He ground cool metal against Sherlock's temple.

"And you're sure of that? You're prepared to risk your life on that assumption?"

A flash of lightning lit the room closely followed by another clap of thunder that sounded like a gun shot.

"I could just kill you both now-"

"A hollow victory, you'll be dead yourself within twenty four hours."

The handle of the gun almost slipped in Stapleton’s clammy hands. He was fucked and he knew it. He couldn’t go up against Nemchinov and win; if he left the girl behind there’d be hell to pay but arriving empty handed would cost him his life. Mycroft Holmes was the end game. That would have to satisfy Nemchinov. Stapleton’s only comfort came from knowing that sweet little Molly Hooper could never free herself and would die here, and her prick of a boyfriend wouldn’t be far behind if he could get both the Holmes brothers to the waiting boat.

Fisting Sherlock’s hair, he pulled them both up to stand, “Right. Okay.” Shouting to the hallway outside, “ _Anton?”_ and again when no answer came, “ _Anton?_ ” Fuck! Where the fuck had that little Russian prick gone to? Shit. He’d have to take him out there on his own.

“Perhaps my team have made it already.” Mycroft’s face unreadable to anyone but Sherlock, when their eyes met the message to his brother was clear, _‘Trust me, I know what I’m doing.’_

Turning to Mycroft, his gun still trained on Sherlock, “There’s a boat moored outside, we’re all going to take a little walk out there, and when you get me out of here safely and I’m satisfied that you’re not playing games I’ll let baby brother here go.”

Another thunder clap, with an echoing clang rattled through the small building. Distracted by their game of wits neither Mycroft nor Stapleton understood what they heard, but Sherlock did.

“No, my brother walks free now or-”

“No. I’ll go with you, as long as Molly is left unharmed.”

Eyes, grey and stony, stared at the man next to him, there was still time to hurt Sherlock for what he had done to Stevie; a small wicked and triumphant smile crinkled the corners of his mouth as he purred in a voice that was low and intimate, “She was good you know, Molly, she was good. I fucked that whore’s filthy little mouth and came down her throat,” Sherlock’s body became rigid alongside Stapleton, “and when I’d finished she licked me clean and begged me for more. Did you know she could suck cock like a fucking porn star?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a snarl, his teeth exposed. His pounding heart made him dizzy. The nerve Stapleton hit ran too deep, too raw. It was a lie, it had to be, but Sherlock knew at that moment that Stapleton’s death would be slow and painful.

"Right then, out we go," Stapleton gestured with his gun toward the door, his wounded arm bleeding profusely, then wrenching Sherlock's injured arm behind his back he shoved the muzzle of the gun against his neck, "you first Mycroft, and believe me when I tell you that if I even suspect that you're about to do something funny I will blow a hole through this fucker's head. Do we understand each other?"

"I understand you perfectly." Mycroft's tone cold and implacable, it was clear to him that this was about more than money, more than escape, Stapleton liked to kill, he wouldn't hesitate to do it now. He watched as a visibly weakening Sherlock swayed against his captor.

It took Stapleton all of five seconds to realise he had no way out.

In the corridor stood a very armed, very dangerous Eve - her weapon raised, "Release him, and drop your gun. _Now_!"

"Oh sweetheart, I don't think so. If I'm going down, I'm going to see how many of you I can take with me."

Something in his eyes flashed as Stapleton looked at Sherlock, and Mycroft knew who would be first, Eve would get a clear shot, but not before Stapleton had a chance to squeeze the trigger and end the life of the man he held, the chances of harm to Sherlock too great, "Wait! Wait," a panicked Mycroft shouted, "stand down," when he saw the conflict on her face, "that's an order. Do. It. Now." he bit out; there was a split second hesitation before she lowered her gun.

Mycroft raised his hands, his palms spread in an obvious gesture of surrender, "Stop. Do not shoot him." Sherlock, clearly the more expendable of the two had to be protected at all costs.

"Are you alone?" Despite his bravado, Stapleton had been visibly shaken, Mycroft could almost see his brain recalculate the odds of him getting out of this alive.

"Yes," she lied, Grant was waiting on the boat outside, splitting up to double their chances after they'd killed Nemchinov's thugs, "Sherlock and I came alone."

For long moments all four stood frozen, the rain that had threatened with the electrical storm finally came, heavy rain drops pounded on the corrugated tin roof of the building and through the cacophony of noise Sherlock heard a whisper of rusted metal on rusted metal as a door in the corridor behind them gently pulled open.

The momentary distraction was enough to break Stapleton's concentration.

Molly slipped through the doorway as Stapleton turned to look over his shoulder in the direction of the unexpected sound, lowering his gun from Sherlock to instead take aim at her.

Three people moved in an unrehearsed instinctive dance to take advantage of his mistake.

Molly swung the end of the heavy chain that she had freed from the wall with the three bullets left in Blackwood's gun at Stapleton, knocking the gun from his hand and sending it spinning across the floor, as Sherlock threw himself back against the now unarmed man, his head crashing into Stapleton's nose with a sickening, bloodied crunch, then tackling him to the ground as Mycroft dived to the floor to seize the gun and train it on the man beneath his brother.

Loud voices and the sound of running filled the hallway as Eve shouted for Grant and charged to Mycroft's side.

It was almost as though a switch had been flicked, Sherlock had played up his weakness, assumed a submissive posture until he could take advantage of his captor’s gullibility, forgetting his own safety when Molly's was at risk.

But now blind rage overwhelmed him. Spinning around, pouncing on his prey like a panther, he slammed his knee into Stapleton's diaphragm and wrapped wiry fingers around the man's throat; with a renewed strength he drove his thumbs into Stapleton's windpipe as he violently shook him, ramming his head repeatedly against the floor, tiny droplets of blood spraying mistily when Stapleton tried to breathe. He managed to draw back long enough to get in one furious punch that he was sure broke the bastard's jaw before Mycroft gripped the back of his coat to pull him off.

"Sherlock," he said softly, his eyes never leaving a clearly in shock Molly who was now shivering as she stared at her lover, for the first time really seeing his physical condition, horrified by the abuse painted across the canvas of his porcelain skin, "not here, not like this," trying to have his brother see sense, "I will defer to your wishes about whatever happens next, but this isn't the time or place."

The only sound now was the rain outside and Sherlock's harsh, exerted breathing.

He swayed into Molly's touch and trembled as she laid a soft hand on his shoulder, his eyes wild and fearful, his heart beating so loudly in his ears that he almost didn't hear her say, "It's over, we're safe now." A sob caught in her voice as she said the words over and over again.

An eerie calm settled over Sherlock as he shakily clamoured off the man beneath him; turning he fell to his knees before Molly and wrapped his arms around her waist. Burying his face against her blessedly warm and alive body, he knew that no matter what his wishes, his decisions, he was hers, it was a done deal; he would never be finished loving her, his heart would always be in her hands. Pulling her into his lap he curled himself around her tiny, fragile body; if the position caused him pain he didn't acknowledge it as he mumbled incoherent words of gratitude for the lives not lost.

Drained and heartsick he pressed heavily against Molly, her fingers soft in his hair as she pulled him closer, Sherlock only vaguely aware of Mycroft's people taking Stapleton away.

There was no need to ask where, Sherlock knew his brother's methods. Within a day all evidence that Jack Stapleton had ever existed would be gone, within two Stapleton himself would follow. Oblivion and extermination, but not before Mycroft indulged his passion for extraction.

 

* * *

 

 

The cleaners had arrived within minutes.

Sherlock only had a scant recollection of he and Molly being whisked away separately to receive medical attention, in ambulances that looked exactly like ordinary delivery vans, before debriefing. Everything seemed distant and surreal and wrong. Not a participant in the real world any longer, he slipped into his own mind trying to order his thoughts, make sense of what was happening to him, to them.

Mycroft had dispatched Eve with Stapleton and had climbed into Sherlock's ambulance without asking. His hand rested on Sherlock's uninjured shoulder as he stared off into the distance, speaking in an unusually tender voice, "He didn't." Pausing to look at his brother who markedly refused to return his gaze, "The implied oral rape. I was aware of her constantly, if it had really happened I would know," Mycroft watched his brother carefully, "and so would you."

"No," he breathed heavily, "I wouldn't," with his eyes still closed, "and that's the problem, isn't it? When it comes to Molly I'm completely blind. She could have died today, and I would never have been able to help her."

"You saved her life. Both our lives in fact. There was no impairment to your judgement, or your abilities."

He shook his head and stared up at the roof of the moving ambulance, anywhere but at his brother, "Why then did you feel it necessary to exclude me from your plan? You must have thought me unable to function, you knew how affected I was."

"The truth is," he sighed and ran his hand down his face, "the truth is I didn't want you to come to any harm. I suspected there would be difficulties here in Sorrento, but I thought if you and Doctor Hooper were removed to Rome you'd both be safe. I misjudged, I'm sorry."

At that he did turn to look at him, huffing in disdain, "Sentiment, Mycroft? Really?"

A bemused expression drawn on his face, quirking one brow a small fragile smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, "Quite unexpected, but apparently, yes."

"You've denounced your religion of solitude and self-sufficiency, disavowed your solemn oath to abstain from human emotion?" His tone mocking and cold, suddenly agitated.

"No, but I've come to recognise that even though I'm right, even though it's a weakness to love, sometimes we don't have a choice." Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he lowered his eyes to the floor, all the fight had gone out of him, "You can't run away from this Sherlock, leaving will solve nothing. You'll still love her no matter how far away from her you are."

"And you'd know all about that, would you?" He bit out, angrily, "Tell me Mycroft, do you think how you've treated me is _love?"_ his distaste for the word apparent,"That using an innocent woman as leverage to gain control of your untrustworthy, imbecilic _baby_ brother is justifiable because you care for me? You think that putting Molly through this, using her, endangering her life, is in some sick and twisted way good for me?" he knocked his brother's hand from his shoulder and turned his back to him, his words steeped in bitterness, "If this, today's events, are the result of your _love_ , then we are all better off without it." His breathing unsteady, desperation and anger rolled off him in waves, and lashing out like the wounded animal that he was, “Understand this, _brother dear_ , if she is ever again caused pain, if even so much as a single hair on her head is harmed because of the path you have thrown her on to, I will hold you personally responsible, and I will make you pay for it in kind." Curling in on himself as far as his injuries would allow, he clenched his jaw and spat through gritted teeth, "Now fuck off Mycroft, and _Leave. Me. Alone."_

 

* * *

 

She didn't have to see him in the darkness of her hospital room to know he was there. Something in the air always changed when he was present, she always just _sensed_ it.

"How are you feeling?" When she turned to look at him his eyes were dark, unreadable, as he surveyed the stains of his stupidity that were painted on her skin.

"Been better, been worse," she croaked out, her throat dry from anaesthetic and lack of use, screwing her eyes tightly shut before blinking them open again, "what time is it?"

"2 a.m., you've been asleep since you came back from theatre," he pulled the blanket that had slipped from her shoulder as she turned to cover her again, "your surgeon was pleased with the outcome. Debridement, I.V. fluids and antibiotics, morphine, she's hopeful that extensive skin grafts won't be necessary." He stared at the floor, "You'll scar, but Mycroft has access to the best cosmetic surgeons money can buy, he's already seeking advice."

"And you?" her voice was gentle and concerned as she took in his appearance, she’d heard the first shot when Sherlock had struggled with Stapleton, and assumed he been injured or worse; that was the moment she decided to take a chance and free herself under cover of the rolling thunder.

"Flesh wound," he lied, "I'm free to go when I choose." Another lie; he’d woken up from surgery on his shoulder just a few hours ago, and as soon as his legs could support him he'd made his way to the staff locker room, where he'd stolen the hoodie, jeans and trainers he was now wearing, he'd emptied the lockers of cash and taken a back pack for the morphine and syringes he was going to need to make it through his journey. Smug that even in his drugged and altered state he slipped effortlessly past the security posted to his door. Mycroft was right of course, he wanted to leave, run away. But he couldn't, not without seeing her first, not without knowing for sure that she had made her mind up about him; he knew he should let her go, knew he should do the right thing, he should be walking away but something was holding him there, some unnamed emotion that made him _want_ so desperately what he couldn't have.

"Molly, look," he leaned forward in his chair, his forearms resting on his knees, his interlaced fingers flexing, eyes fixed on the floor, "I need to talk to you, about what's happened between us these last weeks," thoughts of their intimacy came unbidden to his mind, their affection, the _rightness_ of it all; so many precious moments that no matter how hard he tried he couldn't dismiss from his mind, he loved her, truly loved her, the longing for her burning within him so intensely that he felt as though he were on fire. The weight of his constant craving for her almost unbearable. He would put her happiness before his own, but if there were any chance that he could be the thing that made her happy, that she loved him too... then he would take it, he kept his eyes down, the intensity of his feelings making him so vulnerable he wanted to hide himself from her gaze not wanting her to see the expression on his face as he continued, "about _us._ I need to tell you... to explain to you-"

Reaching out to him, she put her hand over his to halt his words and shook her head, "No."

"No?" all of the air was sucked from his lungs.

"It's okay, you don't owe me an explanation," she shook her head softly against the pillow again, "I'm a grown up Sherlock, I know what this was. We were thrown together, and it was... It was lovely, and fun and romantic, but it was just a fling, a summer romance, I don't expect anything more from you, I promise." The words broke her heart to say, her love for him so immense that planets could be torn in two beneath the gravitational pull she felt to him, loving him so much that she could never regret the few precious nights they'd shared, never be angry at him that it hadn't meant as much to him as it had to her. He was getting ready to run, his clothes, his affect, everything about him screamed that it had all become too much, that he was going to leave, she wouldn't let him believe that she would be angry at him, that she wouldn't still be his friend.

"Oh," he breathed, the word sounding like a small gasp as it passed his lips. There it was.

Over.

She was letting him go.

He'd managed to burn the house down around them, and here they stood in the ashes, the cooling embers, he’d driven her away. Swallowing tightly, he cleared his throat, the lie costing him more than he ever thought it would, "Right. Good. That's, ah, good."

He rose on shaky legs, his heart a heavy weight in his chest, "I, um, I should let you sleep."

As he tried to slip his hand away from beneath hers she grasped it tightly, "Will you stay? Just for tonight. Will you stay with me?" She knew she had to let him go, he wasn't hers anymore, maybe he had never been, but her heart screamed, _'not now, not this second'_.

"Please?"

The plea hung in the air for a moment; he thought of the walls that needed to be rebuilt, the memories that were queued for deletion, all of the feelings that had to be boxed away, the craving for oblivion that his broken heart longed for.

Hesitantly he brushed his thumb across the knuckles of the hand that held his, he looked at her now, shyly, from beneath long dark lashes and nodded once, afraid to speak, afraid his traitorous voice would give him away. Unable to deny himself this one last indulgence of his love for her he toed off his shoes and climbed onto her bed, easing himself down beside her and wrapping his arms around her tightly as her head rested against the place where his neck met his shoulder, she let her eyes flutter closed. His fingertips stroked tenderly back and forth across her shoulder blades; her breathing slowed, timing itself to each caress, her hands moving instinctively to the curls at the nape of his neck. A small sigh escaped from her chest, and she tilted her head to feel his breath on her skin.

The need to touch her too strong, he allowed his palms to sweep gently over her hair as he pressed frictionless lips to the top of her head. Within minutes she had been pulled under into a dark and dreamless sleep.

When at last he knew he should, he slipped gently from her embrace; she didn't hear the words of love he whispered as he left, she didn't feel the tears he cried falling on to her skin, she didn't know that he had kissed her lips softly when he said goodbye, she didn't see him hesitate as he walked away, his heart shattering into a million tiny pieces that he knew could never, _ever,_ be made whole again.

When she woke the next morning, the only evidence that he had ever been there was his phone sitting on her bedside locker. Everything had been stripped from it, phone numbers, photos, mail; everything gone. Except for one thing.

A single song remained in the music folder.

She listened to it, crying for all that she'd had, all that she'd lost, for all the things that would never be, she cried for the memory of the words she had said to him all those weeks ago when she though he was lost to her forever. Because now he was.

She cried for _him_ as she listened, over and over, to the single song that he'd left with a simple instruction…[ _'Play Me'._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LP6us-ZeiSk)

 


	11. Return to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning!! Please note:  
> I’ve updated the tags, please take a look before reading. 
> 
> We started the journey (and thank you so, so much for coming along for the ride!) at Sherlock and Molly’s son’s graveside and, at some point, we had to return to that story. If you’ve read ‘Saving for a rainy day’ you will know what happens to Molly when she returns to London, and if you haven’t I would strongly advise that anyone who may be triggered by issues surrounding pregnancy / stillbirth / miscarriage / child death etc. proceed with caution. Descriptions are not graphic or explicit, but if anyone has specific concerns before reading please feel free to contact me, anonymously if you wish, through the comments section and I’ll be happy to answer.
> 
> Writing doesn’t come naturally to me and for personal reasons this chapter has been extremely challenging, I hope I’ve done the topic justice. Thanks are again due to my beta extraordinaire MaybeItsJustMyType whose support and friendship are invaluable to me; she waded through my type-o’s, fixed my grammar, helped with my phrasing and most of all was a kind and generous reader – there are quite literally no words for how wonderful a human being she is. Thank you K x

 

 

* * *

 

Moving lips to breathe her name, he opened his eyes to find himself alone. A hollow feeling ran through his body.

 

The dreams of her had become ever more vivid over these last lonely weeks. Foolishly, he had once thought the further away he was from her, from his memories of her, the more distant a spectre across his heart she would be. But even now, seven months since they had last been together, a persistent ache throbbed in his heart every time he thought of her.

 

In his desperate state, and with his mind playing tricks again, he imagined he heard her voice; soft and warm like summer rain, soothing him as it fell gently on his fevered skin.

 

The pain, physical this time, had woken him again. Pressing his fingertips against the now infected stab wound in his side, he realised that his own half-cocked attempts to stitch it closed has been ineffective and ill advised. He had sweated through the cheap, worn sheets of his grubby hotel bed again. Antibiotics (stolen, along with other…necessities) had helped, but he couldn’t risk a doctor’s surgery or hospital. Doctors were obliged to notify the police of knife wounds only if the public were in danger, but one look at his workup would tell them about the chemicals rushing through his blood stream, almost certainly prompting a furtive disclosure. Still, it would only be a minor risk. Once his arrest was flagged, Mycroft would fly in on his umbrella like Mary _fucking_ Poppins and save the day. Stupid, foolish, Sherlock in need of rescue once again.

 

Muscle memory caused him to reach up to run his hands through curls that were no longer there, shaved off months ago and kept that way because it made him look so much less like himself.

 

He huffed a bitter laugh. He wasn’t himself. Not anymore.

 

Slowly standing on shaky legs, he made his way to the bathroom and forced himself to stand under a freezing cold shower. Quick mental assessment of his condition: Temperature, hmm, 102 – no -103, heart rate 117 bpm, breathing becoming more erratic. Midlevel sepsis, racing without brakes toward severe. Not good, not good at all.

 

Destroying Nemchinov had these last long months become his obsession, the chase had almost killed him - more than once.

 

 _Would that even matter?_ he wondered, _what did he have to go back to anyway?_

Deep down though he knew it did; not for him, but for Molly. She had sparked Nemchinov’s interest; she would never be truly safe until he was gone. But there was only one access route to the Russian, and that was through Moriarty’s web. So he had made his way back to where the Spider’s heart had lain, searching for the man who was on the verge of winning the battle to inherit the empire his baby brother had left behind. Parallels of he and Mycroft came to his mind, how very alike he and Moriarty had been after all.

 

Carefully towelling his raw skin, painful shivers gripped him again. He needed help.

_Could he risk it?_ He had managed to lay low, mostly living on the streets and in cheap hotels; that luxury only afforded when his body was on the brink of collapse and he needed to rest, as he did now. He suspected even Mycroft wouldn’t be sure where he was.

 

Ireland. Dublin, with its Georgian townhouse lined streets that made his heart ache for Baker Street.

 

He was so close to London, less than an hour away, he could almost smell home.

 

So close but a million miles away, he couldn't return home, not yet, the incident in Italy had jeopardised everything. Amongst those who had a vested interest, and who could pay for that kind of information, the word was out, Sherlock Holmes was alive and there was a price on his head. The better informed ones even knew his type; and they hadn’t hesitated to use that information against him.

 

She had looked like Molly.

 

The one they had sent after him this time, she had looked just like Molly.

 

5’3, long brown hair, doe eyes. A pale imitation of the real thing up close, but her similarity had stunned him and caused just a momentary hesitation that had cost him dearly. She had stabbed him once, clumsily, before he overpowered her, her diminutive appearance belying her deadly nature.

 

Strangling her with his bare hands, her heart beat ebbing under his violin calloused finger tips, her brown eyes shining as she pleaded with him to let her go. He almost had. When it was over he wept for hours.

 

Forcing himself to sit on the edge of his single, lonely bed his mind wandered back to Molly.

 

It always did.

 

She was safe, he knew that for sure. His threat to Mycroft before he left Sorrento had been taken seriously it seemed. A leave of absence from Bart’s was noted on her hacked personnel file, and his homeless network hadn’t seen her since Christmas. Removed to Mycroft’s house about six months ago, he knew she was safe there. The why of it though, that had bothered him; he didn’t know, and he hated not knowing. Maybe she had been frightened by what had happened on the last day they were together seven months ago. Maybe. But that didn’t sound like his Molly. Brave Molly Hooper who risked everything for him. More likely then that Big Brother had intervened for some unknown reason.

 

He scrubbed the burning skin on his face and sighed.

 

Haphazard thoughts of her invaded his mind, fragments of memories; the line of her bare back as she lay asleep, pink and sunburnt skin on her knees, the way her fingers idled in his hair when they had lain together, how her kisses in the morning tasted of tea and strawberry jam. Uneasy dreams of soft disembodied sighs, her warm lips, filled his nights. The aching in his gut for her so strong, so painful that he did the only thing he knew to make it stop. But it wasn’t enough, and if anything it had made things worse; he imagined how she would react if she knew what he had done, how her disappointment would destroy the tiny scraps of humanity that were left of him.

 

He fought to pull himself back to reality, because even to imagine her angry at him made his chest painful with longing. She was gone, lost to him. He had to learn to accept that. He hated himself for still wanting her, that his heart ached for her, that his body craved her.

 

He needed a hit, needed medicine. A quick glance at his phone. 4 a.m.; if he was going to do it now was the time before the city came back to life.

 

Staring into the bathroom mirror he saw under the yellowish fluorescent light what were, even for him, too thin features, dark shadows under dead eyes, shorn hair, he looked all at once like a little boy and an old, old man. And there was something more there too. A small dark shape was reflected over his shoulder from the bedroom beyond.

 

So he’d been wrong.

 

He shouted at the woman with every bit of venom he could muster in his weakened state, “What the _HELL_ are you doing here?”

 

Instantly he knew something wasn't right, this wasn’t just his brother sending the message that he had found him. There were no witty rejoinders, no callous remarks, Eve simply walked to where he was, the call already connected, and placed her phone in his hand saying, “I’m so sorry Sherlock, I truly am.”

 

* * *

 

At thirty one weeks Molly’s baby had died.

 

Stunned, Sherlock had listened as an audibly grief stricken Mycroft told him all the things he should have been there to know. A strong baby boy who came into the world - _and left it too_ , he mentally corrected himself – at three pounds, fourteen ounces and nineteen inches long, he would have been tall, like all of the Holmes men. John _, John_ , Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, had a shock of dark curly hair, rosy Cupid’s bow lips, and long musician’s fingers. A pert nose, just like his mother’s. He had been perfect.

 

A text book pregnancy, and then… and then nothing. Molly’s baby’s tiny heart had simply stopped beating. The life they had made together was gone.

 

She had given birth to him four days ago. Sherlock’s mother had held a devastated Molly through an induced labour, and greeted her grandson when he slipped silently from his mother’s body. After hours of unimaginable pain Molly had cradled her lifeless son to her chest, heavy wet tears spilled down her cheeks as loving arms pulled her close. They had quietly cried in each other’s embrace, the promises of their future together as a family crumbling around them.

 

Echoes of a new born baby’s cry played inside Sherlock's head. In his mind’s eye he pictured a radiant Molly holding his child, who looked back at its father – no, not father, _Papa_ \- with curious brown eyes. He saw himself pressing his lips to a beaming Molly’s head as he told her how clever she was to have made something so wonderful, so perfect. The pain in his chest so visceral, so strong, as he realised his instant and profound love for his little son.

 

His brows knitted together as he tried to push away the images flooding his mind; more painful, more real than anything he had ever experienced. His heart feeling as though it had been ripped, only half beating, from his chest. The pain of his wound forgotten, nothing now compared to the agony Mycroft’s words had caused him.

 

Gripping the door frame, he stumbled on legs that no longer wanted to stand, his pale eyes staring sightlessly straight ahead, it was almost more than he could bear that Molly had suffered through this alone and because of him. He didn’t even realise at first that the noise he could hear in the distance, the one very much like the sound of an animal in pain, was coming from his own lips.

 

“Sherlock?” Eve said softly, “She needs you. It’s time to come home.”

 

* * *

 

A broken man, all of the wires that had held him cut, Sherlock tentatively stepped into his father’s waiting arms on a beautiful Sunday morning in early summer. The sun, already high in the sky, shone brightly through the trees that lined the drive way, casting dappled shadows over them both. His ancestral home, where generations of his family had lived and died, heralding the return of the prodigal son. Wild summer flowers in the fields had lit the road he'd travelled to get there. It was beautiful, he thought, lush greenery everywhere, the branches of the trees bending under the weight of their bounty, his mother’s gardens awash with bright orange roses, pink peonies, white hydrangeas and blue irises, everywhere he looked a riot of joyful colours assailed him.

 

Everything fertile, nothing withered, nothing dying.

 

His father’s large hand cupped the back of his head and pulled him close, his son trembling under his firm grip, Sherlock’s palms were cold and clammy as he clung to him, “My boy,” his face filled with sorrow, his voice soft and forgiving as he looked at his son’s too thin, too worn form, his eyes bright and shining with an unnamed emotion, “welcome home.” Squeezing his son tightly, he kissed his head.

 

His father’s touch, so kind and loving, the first human contact since the night he last held Molly, was too much. Tears that had refused to come since Mycroft’s phone call that morning now fell freely at the thought that he would never greet his son this way, never see him grow into a man, never see him leave, never pray for his safe return. The weight of all he had lost without ever knowing he’d had it finally making him crumble in his father’s safe arms.

 

Both heartbroken for their sons, leaning against one another they swayed, each trying to comfort and be comforted in return. For the very first time in his life Sherlock understood what his own parents must have felt every time he had chosen to recklessly abuse the life they had given him.

 

Looking years older than he had just six months ago, and with his arm wrapped tightly around his boy’s shoulder, Siger Holmes led his son inside.

 

* * *

 

“Where is…everyone?” Sherlock winced as the doctor who had been awaiting his arrival, one of Mycroft's - _a Division Surgeon most likely_ , _just like John_ , that thought bringing him more sadness than it should – repaired the botched stitching of his wound and administered IV antibiotics as he lay on the couch of the small family sitting room at the rear of the grand house. He watched as his father’s eyes closed at the sight of his bruised veins; Sherlock lowered his own, they were filled with shame and embarrassment.

 

“Your mother is arranging flowers at the chapel,” he pursed his lips, blowing a breath through his nose, “for the service, and Mycroft is making travel arrangements for you.”

 

A deep scowl contorted his thin face at the mention of his brother; his mouth was down turned in a perfect arc.

 

Sensing where this would end, Siger waved a hand to dismiss the doctor and continued to dress a now sitting and attentive Sherlock’s wound himself.

 

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this, patched one of you boys up,” pulling on surgical gloves from the pack beside the IV tray he ran a tentative finger along the edge of the gash in the thin skin pulled tight across a skeletal body, “Nasty. Infected. Shallow enough though, you’ll survive. You’ve had worse falling from trees in the orchard. Lie down my boy,” he gently eased his son back into the cushions, “I want to try something,” pulling a small pot of honey from the pocket of his cardigan, he took a gauze covered swab from the tray and began to apply it to a dressing. “It’s been used for millennia as an antiseptic you know,” he gently applied the dressing to Sherlock abdomen, and removing his glove he placed his hand back down against his chest, saying with a small smile, “there now, good as new.”

 

“Whatever Mycroft is planning, he can just forget it,” he gave his father his best withering glare, with difficulty he pulled himself to sit up, "I’m going back to Dublin, I have work to finish-”

 

With his had still firmly in place, Siger tapped his fingertips against the erratic heartbeat that he found there; moving to sit shoulder to shoulder with his son, “No Sherlock, you don't. Not for a while at least.”

 

"-and you can tell Mycroft to go fuck himself."

 

"That's enough Sherlock." A reprimand in his tone, Siger Holmes' distaste for the vulgarity clear to see.

 

“What makes you think I won’t just leave?” Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation, his brow furrowed, “He’s never been able to keep me anywhere against my will before, this time won’t be any different from the others.”

 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Siger said as Sherlock sighed noisily, impatiently, at his father, “this time is different Son, because this time you have something that you want to live for.”

 

His whole demeanour changed at those words, his body stiffening, Sherlock put his hand over his father’s to remove it only to find an unrelenting hold, “No Father,” his eyes searched the older man’s for understanding, he swallowed tightly, “I don’t."

 

“Yes, my boy, you do.” Siger’s fingers curled around his son’s, as he drew a breath to brace himself for the long overdue conversation, “You haven’t asked the question that’s been on your lips since you stepped across the threshold,” his hold tightened on his boy, “and probably for months before,” Sherlock’s eyes stared sightlessly ahead, his muscles set in stone, his breathing irregular, “She’s asleep,” Siger watched as his son’s chest contracted and his breath hitched, Sherlock’s eyes blinking away unshed tears when his father continued, “in your old room in fact. Well her room now, she’s been living here since she was about six weeks along.”

 

One heavy tear drop escaped him as Sherlock closed his eyes, his face very much paler than it had been only seconds before. Something hot and painful coursed through him; he clenched his jaw against it.

 

“Myc thought it would be safer for her here, he wanted to be sure that no one knew about the pregnancy, didn’t want her to be in danger.” Siger watched as one after another the tears falling from his son’s eyes rolled silently down his cheeks. “Mother and I stayed here with her, we’ve um, grown very fond of her,” at that he started to find his own eyes stinging, his own breath laboured; a long pause before he thought he could continue to speak, “in fact, we love her like a daughter.”

 

He gathered himself together, “She’s a remarkable girl, it’s easy to see why you love her.”

 

Sherlock quietly shook his head, unable to speak, but listening intently despite himself.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous Son, of course you do, you wear your heart on your sleeve, you always have,” Siger replied undeterred, as Sherlock’s chin fell to his chest, unable to contain himself any longer his body was wracked by great heaving, heavy sobs, his father pulling him into his arms, Sherlock rested his head on his father’s shoulder, “and she loves you.”

 

Shaking his head again, “No. No, she doesn’t,” the muscles in this jaw and neck tensing, he spoke so softly his father barely heard him say, “I’ve caused her untold misery,” he thought of the tiny infant, as yet unseen by his eyes, who lay in the next room, “I’ve done unforgivable things.”

 

Pulling the throw blanket from the back of the couch, Siger laid his cheek against the top of Sherlock’s shorn head as he wrapped himself and his son together; he rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’d imagine a soul as kind and as gentle as Molly’s would be prepared to forgive many things.” He drew in a breath, deep and steadying, “Where there’s love, true love, well…it will always find a way. Your mother and I…well, you know about your mother and I, you know what she forgave.” And that was true, she had truly forgiven him his foolish mistake, they had loved each other so much there was no other choice but to forgive and move on, even news of the consequences his affair had brought on her own sons could not dampen Violet’s sorrow for Siger when he learned of his lost child's fate.

 

He put a hand to Sherlock’s damp face, his thumb rubbing tears from too prominent cheekbones, with sympathetic curiosity he asked, “Just what is it you imagine she has to forgive you for?”

 

When no answer came he continued, “She was joyful about the baby you know. Scared at first, but happier as time went by. And that was in no small part because you were the boy's father." Looking at the pained expression in Sherlock's eyes, "She wanted this you know, the child, you, all of it. And she was hoping you'd want that too. What ever it is you think you've done to her, she wants you just the same."

 

Hugging his son tighter, "I can only tell you this; I’ve lived with the girl for six months now and never once have I seen signs of anything other than her being hopelessly in love with you.”

 

Almost startled, Sherlock pulled away to look at his father’s face, smiling Siger said, “I can make deductions of my own you know. Twelve bedrooms in this draughty old place and she chose to sleep in yours, her face lighting up whenever your name was mentioned, she clung to your mother’s every word about your childhood exploits-”

 

“Oh Dad! You didn’t -”

 

“- drinking it in greedily whenever Violet would share a story or a photograph,” he looked at his son now, relived to see he had relaxed a little and there was something that on a different day would almost pass for the beginnings of a smile, he chose his next words carefully, “She locked herself away in this place for months on end because she didn’t want you to come to any harm, didn’t want you to have to worry about her. Not even her family knows about little John,” Sherlock sighed sadly and closed his eyes again, leaning back into his father’s solid embrace, both men struggling to hold tears back, “and when he…when he passed,” Siger swallowed tightly as Sherlock sniffled and began to cry again, tears cascading down his pale cheeks, “all her thoughts were for you. How you had never felt him move the way she had, never saw his tiny heart beating – even if it was just in a grainy image – how she’d had seven months with him and you’d had none, adamant that his name be the one she thought you would choose.”

 

He held his son until the tears stopped and he was once again quiet, “To see a heart as true as yours broken is a terrible thing for a parent.” He gave his son a tight squeeze, “You can’t keep running all your life my boy, some day you’ll have to stop, it may as well be now when there’s someone here waiting for you to come home.” Softly he asked, “Can you honestly tell me you don’t want to be with her?”

 

"You don't understand," he said angrily, waving his hands impatiently, "I would only end up hurting her, I’m too...too…"

 

His father sighed, "Your mother and I, we've always worried more about you than Mycroft. You were such a sensitive little boy," he held a hand up to stave off protest, then mumbled softly against his son's down turned face "and always so consumed by your passions, you always loved too much, too intensely. Sherlock," he held his boy close, adding sadly, "you've never been cold, but at some point you figured out that you could choose not to love to save yourself the pain. And that was our concern - not that you couldn't love, but that you wouldn't. We despaired of you being alone for the whole of your life... until we met Molly."

 

Exhausted, defeated, all Sherlock could say was, “It’s hopeless.” His head was spinning with the pressure that had begun to build behind his temples, he suddenly felt sick. How could he give himself to her when he was lost to himself? He lived only in the memories of a past that wasn't his anymore.

 

“There’s always hope.” He sagged against his son, “But life isn’t full of limitless chances Sherlock, you have to take them when you can.”

 

“I – I,” he sighed frustrated, obvious regret in his voice, “I can’t be - I can never be the man Molly wants me to be.”

 

“No. No you can’t. You can only be the man _you_ want to be,” he sat back to look into Sherlock’s eyes, “so the only question here is luckily one you can answer for yourself, and that is do _you_ _want_ to be the man Molly wants you to be?”

 

Standing, Siger patted his son's shoulder, and without looking at him said, "It's time to grow up my boy, put the ways of childhood behind you and become a man."

 

Kissing the top of his son’s head he checked the IV still dripping into Sherlock’s veins, “Another half hour or so should do it,” then pulled Sherlock’s legs up onto to couch again, “try to get some sleep, you’ll need it my boy, this is going to be a difficult day. I’ll have breakfast ready for you when you wake– which you _will_ eat, no quibbling, you look as though a good gust of wind would knock you over – and then you will go and talk to Molly.”

 

Desperately in need of rest, Sherlock did as his father instructed and closed his eyes. “Dad?” Sherlock asked cautiously, his voice shocking Siger so much his heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t heard that particular tone in his child’s voice in more than two decades; he looked at his heartbroken son whose face was etched with uncertainty and misery, his voice small, “I don't know how to help her. Is there something I should say to her? Something I should do?”

 

His heart heavy but sure, Siger replied, “You’ll know what to do when the time comes. Just be yourself, that’s all she’s ever needed before.”

 

Turning to leave, he took one last long look at the fragile man curled in on himself, his successes and failures as a parent written there for the world to see; the sight made his heart twist in sorrow. As he walked away he called over his shoulder to Sherlock, “I’ll let Mycroft know you’ll be ready to leave in the morning.”

 

* * *

 

The ancient floor boards outside of his room still squeaked and groaned noisily when they were walked upon, making a quiet approach impossible; it was one of the reasons he loved this part of the house so much. At one time his ( _her’s now_ , he thought, and something about that knowledge caused a stirring within him so strong, so alien, that he almost couldn't breathe) had been the nursery, the smallest of the bedrooms in the Jacobean manor house that had been home to generations of his family. But as he grew he had refused to leave – always the wilful, stubborn child – and his parents had indulged him, as they always did. Still, he approached as silently as he could, his hand resting on the brass door knob for many minutes before he had the courage to turn it.

 

Pushing the door open into the darkened room all of the air was sucked from his lungs when his eyes settled on the small blanket wrapped bundle lying asleep, sedated, on his ( _her? their?)_ bed. Her beautiful long brown hair spread out in a fan across the pillows.

 

Even in the dim light that escaped beneath the heavy brocade curtains he could see the changes in her body. Breasts and hips were fuller, rounder, her tummy still swollen from the child it had carried to almost full term; her hair and skin glowing, radiant. Shame and guilt filled him at the realisation of how beautiful he found her, how desperately he wanted to reach for her.

 

Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it for support as he watched her, her breathing unnaturally deep and even. In the last seven months he had imagined the moment he would see her again over and over, hundreds of scenarios had played out in his mind; this had never been one of them. Delicate and damaged, she needed someone strong to carry her now, someone to at least share the burden. Could he be that man? The one his father said it was within his power to be? He didn’t know, but for Molly he would try, no matter how painful the consequences were for him.

 

Barefoot, he took a staggering step inside, stilling to look at her again, before he finally crossed the room to cautiously stand at the side of ( _his? her? their?)_ the bed. Even in sleep he could see the grief etched into her face. Without premeditation he reached out to push a strand of silky brown hair from her face, his fingers grazing her soft skin; his knees almost buckling, his skin tingling at the contact. His entire body suddenly feeling like a raw, exposed nerve.

 

Oh, how he'd missed her. More than he had ever missed anything in his life. Every cell in his body longed for her. Every beat of his heart called to her.

 

Her head still foggy from the sedatives they'd given her, sleepily she opened her unfocused eyes. Blinking out into the dim room, “Sherlock?”

 

He couldn’t speak, his throat clamped shut, no sound escaping no matter how hard he tried.

 

“Sherlock? Is that you?” she’d begun to pull herself out of the depths of sleep and push herself slowly, awkwardly, to a sitting position. Grief and despair drawing her fine and delicate features.

 

His breath caught painfully in his throat. He could only nod. _Yes_.

 

Kneeling down beside her he reached out to take her hand just as she reached to touch his head.

 

“Your hair,” she said, her voice cracking, her face contorting in pain, as heavy tears rolled unheeded down her face, “your beautiful curls, Sherlock. What have you done?”

 

Distressed, she ran her hands across his shorn hair, her fingers frantically grasping for purchase. "Sherlock," she cried and shook her head violently, agitated, alarmed, “No. No. Everything's wrong. It's all wrong. This isn't how it's supposed to be. It isn't meant to be like this," her sobbing became muted as she pressed her hands over her stricken eyes, "this wasn't supposed to happen. I don't understand why this happened."

 

He climbed gingerly on to the bed beside her, the old wooden laths creaking under the extra weight. Bone tired and heartsick, he pulled her flush to his chest, holding her as she cried, her body shuddering against him. When finally he managed to push air past his vocal cords, he whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” over and over again, his voice breaking. Frustration and regret poured out of him into his words. The tension in his muscles as he held her made him tremble, Molly became calmer, but only a little. She seemed helpless and fragile in his arms.

 

Her small hand wrapped around the nape of his neck, searching for closeness, something to fill the endless emptiness inside her, "Our little boy died, our beautiful, perfect little boy died," her voice was small, devoid of any inflection, numb. Her eyes filled with tears again.

 

"I know." He pressed a gentle chaste kiss to her head and held her against him more tightly, wiping the tears from her damp cheeks with one long finger, trying desperately to will away his own threatening tears.

 

"My heart is broken."

 

It felt like a block of stone had been laid on his chest, his lungs compressed, he barely managed a whisper, "I know that too."

 

Her fists had now balled in his tear dampened tee shirt, "It isn't fair."

 

"No, Molly my angel, it isn't."

 

Bereft of the knowledge of how to help her, he simply held her close. She lay in his arms, clinging to him as though he were a life raft and Molly a drowning woman; things they couldn’t say wordlessly understood as they took comfort in one another’s nearness. Together, they were adrift in the darkness of their grief.

 

As he held her, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, he surveyed the room he had once known so well. Reminders now everywhere of a life that would never be. She had known it would be a boy it seemed; the room freshly painted sky blue, a mural of pirate ships on one wall, newly erected shelves on another that held the contents of boxes that had long ago been sent to the attic for storage and forgotten about by him – the passions of his childhood carefully arranged on them, books, board games, the soft and tattered velvet bumble bee he had clung to like a security blanket until he was seven and sent away to boarding school where such comforts were deemed a weakness. His eyes lingered on newly framed decades old photographs of him and Mycroft as children – one at the beach, playing together in the sand, one of he and Redbeard lying in the long grass of the copse near the lake from where he had launched his toy boats on his many pirate adventures. One of Molly and her sister Libby; the photo, faded with age, of a beautiful brown eyed little girl sitting in front of a Christmas tree as she held aloft her prize, a brand new microscope, her loving older sister looking on. How it must have pained Molly to keep secrets from her family struck him with such force that tears began anew.

 

His father was right, how on Earth had he – the great Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes - missed something so obvious? Molly did love him. It was written in every action she had ever taken, very decision she had ever made. And he had missed it, too indulgent in his own self-pity to see obvious signs of her adoration, her forgiveness of his flaws and failings.

 

In that instant he knew. His decision made. If the choice was his, then yes, he would be the man she needed him to be. He would give her everything; he would strip away all of his defences, rip himself apart and present her with the pieces to rebuild him anew. He would tell her that…that he loved her, and he would let her love him in return.

 

But not today.

 

Today they would bury their son. Today was not for revelations and promises; today was for John.

 

He had work to finish too. Moriarty’s family had to be taken out, then Nemchinov would fall, he would see to that. He estimated 12 to 16 months was needed, then he would return to London, return to Molly. She would wait, there was no need to ask it of her, he knew she would; the evidence of her patient love for him was everywhere his eyes came to rest.

 

She shifted against him, a heavy resistance in her body, and he tilted her head back to kiss the tears from her soft lashes, imploring doe eyes looked to him for comfort. Willowy fingers traced her cheekbone and she leaned into his touch; she fitted so perfectly in to his embrace. He gently took her hand to brush a kiss to her palm, then the pulse point on her wrist.

 

As she drifted off to an uneasy sleep, he pressed his hand to her stomach as tears rolled silently down his cheeks.

 

He would protect her, cherish her, love her.

 

Their life together would begin the second he returned to her and to London.

 

Because Molly Hooper belonged to him.

 

* * *

 

_Three years later…_

“I held my son exactly twice,” Sherlock turned to look at his friend who had patiently sat beside him for hours as he told his story, the sky above them had grown darker, the horizon painted pink and orange as the sun began to set, glimpses of twinkling stars at the dark edges of the evening that stretched out before them, the yew trees of the graveyard now silhouetted against the horizon; that beautifully peaceful in-between time of early evening upon them, “the first time later that morning when Molly and I sat alone with him before the funeral. She placed him in my arms, we three together for the only time as a family.” The images of that day haunted his mind; a distraught Molly in his arms, his beautiful son who looked exactly as though he were sleeping, they were burned into his retinas as though he'd stared too long at the sun. Sometimes the memories were so vivid he could barely breathe. The world had carried on, never knowing of their loss, but he and Molly would be forever incomplete because of it.

 

John’s body slumped on the granite bench where he sat, the wind knocked out of him by his friend's story.

 

Staring at the headstone that read simply _'John Mycroft Holmes, born an angel'_ his vision filled with images of his own happy family, the unimaginable loss that Sherlock and Molly had suffered superimposed over his own blessed life. He was intimately acquainted with the toll stillbirth had on a parent; he'd seen grieving families dozens of times at his surgery, the loss of a child was possibly the greatest pain a person could ever experience. Whoever said time heals all wounds was a fool. He cleared his throat, finding it hard to speak, “You said twice?”

 

A voiceless sigh escaped his lips. Sherlock’s interlaced fingers flexed as he held them on his lap, his jaw working for what seemed like minutes before he answered; at least his hands had stopped trembling, he was grateful for that. “The second time was when I carried his coffin from the chapel to here," a small nod indicating to his son's grave, "it was so tiny, so light, that I could carry him in just one arm,” he threw his head back to look at the sky above him, markedly not looking at his friend, he pushed out a long and difficult breath, “The service was beautiful, Mycroft and Mother saw to everything, and afterward Molly and I-” his voice cracked with emotion, his throat swelling painfully, “Molly and I stayed here with him. We sat on the ground, she needed to cry to get it all out, and so I held her and let her. I didn’t know what else to do," he closed his eyes against the painful memory, "The next day I was flown to a private rehabilitation clinic in Switzerland. One month later I resumed my work.”

 

There had been an obvious change in Sherlock when he had come back from the dead, he was softer, more demonstrative – well Sherlock’s version of it anyway- a kinder person, and now that John thought about it Sherlock’s loneliness had been palpable too. How arrogant he had been to think that was because of him, realising now it had been the aftermath of Italy that had left his friend a changed man.

 

John scrubbed his face, “Christ, Sherlock. I had no idea.”

 

“No,” Sherlock breathed, “by design, no one did.”

 

“And Nemchinov?”

 

“Still out there. I never got to him.” His tone serious, admitting the failure that gnawed at him every day making him tense, “Moriarty’s brother, a Professor in a Dublin college, tipped him off before I could get to him. He disappeared underground, his syndicate dismantled, but none the less still very much a threat.” _To Molly_ _especially_ , he acknowledged to himself but didn’t add.

 

“What about Molly?” John asked, “When you came back?”

 

“Already engaged, it had happened only days before my return,” he smiled a crooked bitter little thing, “at the first news of it Mycroft swooped in on his broomstick and pulled me out of Serbia.” He turned to his friend, “He brought me back to fight for her,” Sherlock shook his head, “but it was too late. She’d already moved on.”

 

“ _Mycroft?”_ John questioned in disbelief, that couldn’t be right, Mycroft didn’t have a romantic bone in his body “ _Mycroft Holmes was playing cupid?_ ”

 

“I know,” Sherlock feigned indignation, “If there was a dictionary definition for his meddlesome matchmaking endeavours, it would name Molly and I as examples of the word in use.” He sighed heavily, “it was all for naught anyway, by the time she had begun to realise her feelings for me were reciprocated-”

 

“Janine, the drugs, the Magnusson case...” John interrupted.

 

Sherlock nodded his head once in affirmation; the time wasted, the mistakes made, “Yes." Standing, he wrapped himself in his coat, tugging his collar and scarf around himself for warmth, the summer gone now and the chill that early autumn brought was sharp in the air around them, he touched his gloved fingers to his lips then pressed them gently to the headstone of the grave they had sat beside all afternoon, "Goodnight, sweet boy." His voice low and solemn as he walked away, not turning to look at his friend when he heard John call his name.

 

"Sherlock, wait." John's short strides no match for his friend’s longer ones.

 

"Come on, we should get back to London before dark." Sherlock's collar was turned up against the wind, hiding most of his face, yet the doctor could still see the pain of the things he'd lost plainly written there.

 

John broke into a run, and when he caught up to Sherlock he took his elbow halting his progress, turning him face to face as he spoke, "I'm, um, I'm sorry Sherlock, for you and for Molly," genuine sorrow for his friend softening his dark steely blue eyes, "I really am."

 

Blinking an acknowledgement of John's kind words, Sherlock began once more down the path that led to the road home. Keeping pace beside him, John hesitantly asked, "And what about now?" He looked at his feet as he walked, praying that the right words would suddenly appear on his shoes, "That bloke she was engaged to is out of the picture, isn't he?" Sherlock visibly stiffened at the mention of him, "and you're in a better place than I've seen you in years, maybe now would be a good time to, I don't know," John's eyes widened in confusion and surprise at the very thought, "ask her to dinner?"

 

That was true actually, now that John thought about it. The last few months Sherlock had seemed happier than he'd ever know him to be; he seemed _rested_ , relaxed even, he'd even managed to gain a couple of much needed pounds - the look of a dead man walking had left him, in fact it wasn't unheard of these days for him to crack a non-case related smile once in a while.

 

"Dinner, John? How plebeian," he rolled his eyes in an exaggerated display of mock disgust, "is that how you wooed Mary? Not very imaginative, is it?"

 

"Perhaps not, but it is effective." As they reached the car John held his hand against the passenger door to halt Sherlock's progress, "Look Sherlock, I know it's none of my business-"

 

"Well done John, excellent deduction-"

 

"-but you're my friend, actually my best friend, and the fact that I have a wife and child to go home to tonight is largely thanks to you." Sherlock huffed out an impatient sigh as John continued, "So."

 

"Oh for God's sake John, spit it out, it's physically painful to watch you trying to piece this together."

 

"Fine," John continued, his head inclined to one side, his chin jutting out at a stubborn angle, "you were in love with Molly Hooper, yeah?"

 

After a long pause where John refused to break eye contact, "Fine, yes," Sherlock sighed, "I was."

 

Surprised at the honest confession, it took John a moment to formulate the question, "Then what's stopping you, hmm?" He cocked his head quizzically to one side, "She's single now, you obviously still have feelings for her... Why not, you know, give it a go?"

 

"It's complicated." He sighed, his nose crinkling in disgust at the cliché.

 

"Have you been reading self-help books for relationship advice again? Because really, it's not complicated at all."

 

Sherlock looked at an expectant John, and _oh_ how he envied his simplistic version of life. The reality was, verbose and articulate as he was, he couldn't quite put it into words. He and Molly had been sleeping together (seeing each other?) for the last three months, and yet despite his...feelings for her, something was, well _not quite right_. Their places in each other's lives seemed uncertain. So many unsaid things saturated the air between them like storm clouds.

 

Three nights ago she had told him that she knew that he loved her, that she knew weeks ago that everything had changed between them, that anything he wanted to take from her she would give.

 

But that wasn't true, was it?

 

Molly Hooper, had surprised him into silence on the matter that night, he'd felt raw and vulnerable unable to tell her the truth. She saw him so clearly sometimes that it was almost frightening, so it had been to shocking to him that she'd been so wrong.

 

Opening the door of the little Audi, Sherlock sat down heavily as they began the journey home, John silently accepting that there would be no answer to his question tonight.

 

Thoughts swirled around him like leaves in the early autumn wind. For years he had kept his memories of his time with Molly under lock and key, stored in the deepest, darkest, recesses of his mind. But today he had held back nothing, recalling them uncensored, allowing himself to feel them with the same intense emotion that they had caused him so long ago. His reflection in the passenger window looked lost and lonely as his vision was streaked white by the headlights of oncoming cars.

 

He had taken those parts of himself that had belonged only to her, boxed them away, and denied they ever existed because of the pain they had caused him. He had sworn to himself that he would never allow himself to be hurt that way again, yet here he was, exposed and vulnerable, once again at the mercy of things he had no control over. He couldn't function like this, torn in two.

 

Staring as the hedgerows and lanes gave way to high rises and motorways, he slowly and meticulously began piecing together the things he needed to ask Molly, his thoughts first returning to the night three months ago that had brought him back to her again...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line ‘Moving lips to breathe her name, he opened his eyes to find himself alone’ is shamelessly stolen from one of the songs on my Sherlolly playlist, ‘Just like heaven’ by The Cure.
> 
> Though I’m not a religious person, it seems Siger Holmes is, the line ‘It's time to grow up my boy, put the ways of childhood behind you and become a man’ was inspired by Corinthians 13.11
> 
> I struggled with Sherlock and Molly’s reunion, the idea that ‘She lay in his arms, clinging to him as though he were a life raft and Molly a drowning woman’ came from my wonderful beta MaybeItsJustMyType, it was only one of the many suggestions she made that greatly improved this chapter. Thank you K x


	12. You belong to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, here we are! I can’t believe this fic is finished and that I’m leaving this little universe behind (I shouldn’t admit this but I’ve been crying for two days straight about it ending). So reluctant am I to say goodbye that I’ve cheated, a bit, and I will be posting a short epilogue/coda next weekend – a glimpse of where life takes our lovely pair after this story.
> 
> This fic is a prequel to 'Saving for a rainy day', which centres around a conversation between Sherlock and Molly, the end of this fic carries on from that conversation in tone but not in content. While it's not necessary to have read it first, knowledge of it will add to your understanding. 
> 
> I’ll try not to ramble on, but there are those who deserve a big thank you and I’m determined to give it. There are three people who have supported this fic and me personally, and without them I’d have lost my mind ages ago. 
> 
> First, Mr OhAine who despite not having the slightest interest in Sherlock, read my drafts, helped with plot and investigated the type of cars Italian mob bosses drive (though I suspect that wasn’t just for me!), Love you baby x. 
> 
> Second, o0katiekins0o who welcomed me to the Sherlolly family, cheered on my every post, and got me thinking about the characters in a way that I hadn’t been able to verbalise before our chats, Thank you dearie! 
> 
> Third, my wonderful beta MaybeItsJustMyType (aka, sweet-sweet-escape), she pours over my type-o’s, fixes my grammar, tells me I’m great when I’m not and makes me laugh constantly, the swans are back K, just for you! Love you long time x.
> 
> Lastly, I want to say a BIG thank you to all those who read, bookmarked, left kudos, and in particular to those who left such lovely supportive comments; these are the things that keep you writing when you feel like you just can’t go on. I’ve been lucky to have such wonderful readers and a little group who comment and encourage every time, there are no words for the joy they’ve brought me. 
> 
> So with that in mind this chapter is for one of my loyal and supportive readers, Limaro, who commented on Chapter 10 ‘Mycroft had better damned well fix this and fix it now’- I love that you were so passionate about the story, and it killed me not to be able to tell you that he would… 
> 
> So, did he? For the (almost) last time, read on folks…

* * *

 

 

_Three months earlier…_

 

The ceaseless thunder clapped again, causing already frayed nerves to simmer over. The flash of lightning that had preceded the rattling of window panes had taken the stuttering electricity with it.

 

Leaving the family sitting room of Mycroft’s home, Violet and Molly began the search for candles before darkness fell. Sherlock watched her leave, longing to say something, _anything_ , to break the horrible silence that prevailed between them. Turning, his eyes narrowed as he watched his brother, missing the moment Molly had turned to look longingly at him.

 

"The bridges and roads through the village have closed," Mycroft announced to the room as he swiped his thumb across the screen again, closing the surveillance images of Nemchinov disembarking at Heathrow on a false passport earlier that day, "we'll be here until at least tomorrow morning. You may as well get comfortable."

 

Stalking to where his brother stood, out of earshot of their father, Sherlock looked at him sharply and snarled through gritted teeth, "What the hell are you playing at Mycroft?"

 

"I'm not God, Sherlock, I don't control the weather," came the amused reply with a look that said exactly the opposite of his words.

 

"But you _can_ control road closures if you wish," Sherlock's demeanour growing more and more defensive, angry, with every passing second.

 

"Be that as it may, I haven't done so in this case. It’s simply too dangerous to travel," his expression unchanged, "I suggest you use this time, _brother dear_ , to attempt to make amends with Dr Hooper. Your childish behaviour is breaking Mummy's heart."

 

“I suggest you mind your own fucking business Mycroft,” came the predictable reply to a now smiling Mycroft; a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning accompanying his departure from the room where the group had assembled after the annual service for Sherlock and Molly’s son.

 

Flooding was common during torrential down pours in the summer months, but the scale of this particular event hadn’t been predicted. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway; Molly and he had come together on this day every year at what was now Mycroft’s Estate to remember their son, along with the only other people in the world who had known of his existence.

 

They tried, told themselves that it was a celebration of his birthday rather than the anniversary of his death, but in reality it was always a difficult day for them.

 

Sherlock felt it keenly, but he knew that for Molly it was even worse. The silence and unhappiness as they sat together made even more difficult by the current state of their friendship.

 

In the month after John and Mary’s wedding, after she’d ended her engagement, they’d become close again and there had been hope. They both knew the bolthole business was nonsense; after all, who in hell’s name platonically shares a bed with their ex-lover?

 

No, it was an excuse and they let it slide because they were trying. Trying to see if they could fit in each other lives again. And it had been almost there, their intimacy had come close to the way things had been in Italy; they fell asleep in each other’s arms almost every night, shared stories of their day’s work, ate too many takeaways and had fallen into a comfortable pattern of companionship and closeness. The potential of something more had begun to spark between them again. They’d almost had it. Almost. Then came the Magnusson case, and everything fell apart.

 

She hadn’t forgiven him; that much was clear. A combination of drugs and a fake engagement, swiftly followed by, well, a murder, had all taken their toll on her tolerance for his behaviour. The night before his exile he had gone to her, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her there would be no rescues, no miracles this time. When she had found out there had been no ticket home for him, days after the fake Moriarty fiasco had begun, it had destroyed what little trust in him she still held.

 

It had been weeks since they’d seen each other, even longer since they talked, but yet it was always understood, even if unspoken, that on this day they would be together.

 

The car journey had been strained and passed mostly in silence. Occasional polite, banal, conversation about the weather, Molly expressing her pleasure at getting to see Siger and Violet again; Sherlock had asked about her work and that seemed to be the deal breaker for some reason he couldn't deduce, silence had re-asserted itself for the rest of the journey.

 

No words were exchanged at the service, but he had taken her hand and she had let him, intertwining her fingers with his. He fought to remind himself that it was because she needed comfort; she hadn’t wanted _him_ , he told himself, not really.

 

The familiar weight of her hand in his felt like the only thing tethering him to this Earth, he was a drowning man, lost in a violent tempest that he couldn’t control. No matter how hard he tried, he always got it wrong with Molly.

 

Maybe it was time to let go.

 

His life in London didn’t need him anymore; he’d regretted returning anyway the second he saw the ring on her finger. Maybe it was time to accept one of Mycroft’s assignments and never return. It was likely that if he stayed he wouldn’t survive much longer anyway, he was slowly dying, everyone around him saw it; perhaps going and letting someone else finish him off instead would be easier for his parents to take. Perhaps.

 

He still loved her. He’d given his heart to her irrevocably years ago, the ache inside him at the thought of existing on this Earth with the love of his life, the other half of his soul, forever separate from him, ate away at him every single day. It was getting harder and harder to _just fucking exist_. To spend the evening in Molly’s presence, feeling the collective disapproval of those around him was just too much for him to take.

 

Before his mother and Molly returned, Sherlock decided to put a premature end to an already terrible day and retreat to his old bedroom, before the inevitable advice on how to live his life began.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He hadn’t heard the gentle knock over the sound of the shower and ancient pipes cracking and stretching.

 

He’d turned his face into the spray, grateful that the falling water mingling with his tears meant he couldn’t tell one from the other anymore.

 

Molly. The nearness of her tormented him; that she was so close but untouchable was an excruciating agony.

 

Pyjama bottoms slung low on slim hips, his body and hair still wet he padded barefoot into his bedroom to find a startled Molly setting candles by his bedside, a tray of food resting on his bed. The light outside dwindling, rain clouds making the room darker than it should be for the time of year, the electricity that crackled in the air a by-product of the relentless storm.

 

“I, um, thought you might be hungry,” her eyes swept across his bare chest, blushing she turned back to the task of lighting the pillar candles she’d brought with her, her gaze downcast, her face hidden; Sherlock watched as the tips of her ears turned red. As he slipped his dressing gown on, it clung to his body, drawing her eyes back to him they lingered on his full lips; she cleared her throat, “and it’ll be dark soon. So. Um, you’ll need these.”

 

He swallowed down his hitched breath; Molly in a short, diaphanous, night gown, stunningly beautiful in candle light, her slender legs and arms bronzed by the summer sun exposed to his gaze, her hair cascading in a dark curtain over her shoulders, her lips and cheeks pink, her throat flushing. His heart leapt, bright and unexpectedly in his chest at the very sight of her.

 

“Thank you,” he managed, his voice breaking on the words as he watched her fingers nervously dance from one candle to the other, her lovely face lit by the muted glow that emanated from them; gesturing to the bed he said nervously, “would you like to join me?” Seeing the startled look on her face, he quickly clarified, “I mean the sandwiches, not, ah, the um…other thing.” He closed his eyes and began to pray that the ground would swallow him whole, not seeing her faint, regretful, smile.

 

Setting the tray on the floor, she pulled pillows from the bed and threw them down on to the worn wooden boards, regarding him with a warm and caring look, “Yeah. Alright,” gracelessly she flopped to the floor, “but I’m not hungry, so you eat. I’ll just, um, sit. I wanted to talk to you.”

 

Lowering himself to the floor beside her, his legs outstretched, ankles crossed, their thighs touching, he toyed with the crust of his sandwich, staring straight ahead and refusing to make eye contact for fear of what he might give away. After long moments Molly asked quietly, her fingers toying with the hem of her nightgown, nervous about the answer she might hear; her pallid face unable to hide her concern, but her voice not faltering when she asked, “Are you using again?”

 

Tears sprang to his eyes; his throat constricting and full of sand, “No,” he managed at last, his voice hoarse, his skin ashen in the silver light of the cloud covered night.

 

Loving eyes watched his face for signs of the truth, her own features pale and sad, “But you’re thinking about it?”

 

A single tear fell from his tightly closed eyes that matched the cloudy sky outside, empty and lost he stayed silent.

 

Her small fingers curled around his longer ones, his hand shaking beneath hers. The only sounds in the room were his laboured breathing and the heavy rain drops on the window panes.

 

“I’m sorry,” barely a whisper, Molly’s voice wavering, “you’ve needed a friend and I wasn’t…” she drew a shaky breath, “I couldn’t be…after...I just couldn’t.”

 

There it was again, he thought. The Magnusson case. He had saved Mary and John’s lives, but ruined his own. His life had been in shreds afterward, not least of all because it had cost him Molly’s affection and friendship.

 

“I’m sorry too,” he said softly; and _God_ , the truth in those words, “for everything.”

 

Turning to kneel beside him, drawing herself eye to eye with him, she took his face in her shaking hands, “Can we…” she swallowed down her fear, “Can we start again, forgive each other and be friends,” stroking his face, “I think we both need…that. And, well, I miss you,” his eyes widened as hope flared in his stomach, “I miss you so much.”

 

 _I can barely stand it anymore,_ he wanted to say, _the complete absence of you consumes me_ , but managing only, “I miss you too.”

 

“You’re lonely,” her fingers grazed his cheekbone, the intimacy of the gesture and the warmth of her skin making his mouth go dry.

 

 _Christ,_ she could always see right through him, “Yes,” he answered truthfully, and then he suddenly saw it, “as are you.”

 

“Yes,” she snorted a mirthless little laugh, “I am.”

 

“I don’t understand,” shaking his head in confusion, “you have so many friends, a family?”

 

“I know but… Well, I didn’t ever think it would be just me for the rest of my life. My friends all have husbands now, kids too, their lives are full and they don’t need me. And my family is really just Libby, and she and I,” Molly drew a breath in through her nose, “her not knowing about John has put so much distance between us-”

 

“No, not Libby,” Sherlock searched her face for understanding, his hand reaching shyly for hers, “I meant me. I’m your family.”

 

She knelt beside him not speaking, and tilted her head to one side, uncomprehending.

 

“You are the mother of my child. I am the father of yours. Empirically we, you and I, are a family,” unable to disguise the genuine affection and love in his voice he said honestly believing the words, yet suddenly unsure that she would see it that way too.

 

“Sherlock,” she breathed a soft sigh as tears rolled down her face.

 

He closed his eyes; too quickly to see how Molly looked at him. Without even realising he was doing it again, he’d hurt her, made her cry. _Stupid_ , _stupid_ , he berated himself; the spark of any hope he felt of them renewing their friendship extinguished by the tears he had caused.

 

A deep, empty fear overwhelmed him, no longer able to breathe or open his eyes, “I-” he began, but fell silent as gentle fingers threaded through soft curls, he felt her breath on his lips; her knees coming to rest on either side of his thighs, “Sherlock,” she breathed softly again, as blinking, he opened his eyes in time to see her lower her head to press soft lips against his, his hands instinctively coming to rest at her waist, his lips parting in supplication. Something hot and heavy filling his chest; the warmth of her body almost shocking to him after years of abstinence. His breath hitching as her blunt finger nails lightly scratched his scalp, his insides liquefying at her longed for touch. The scent of her warm skin, heady and intoxicating; the kiss languid and devastating, tender and deep, as she tugged lightly at his hair making him dizzy. Shivers ran down his spine when she moaned against his mouth.

 

With his head still cradled in her hands, he returned the kiss hesitantly, chastely at first, tasting brandy, warm on her lips; Dutch courage, he realised, but for what he couldn’t tell. Electricity sparking as their lips pressed more insistently together. Her hands gliding down the length of his elegant neck to push his dressing gown from his shoulders, the low timbre of his voice igniting fireworks in her belly.

 

“This?” he managed to whisper, soft and shocked, as her lips touched his carotid pulse, “You still want this?” unable to get his breathing under control, his heart beating in his throat.

 

Leaning back to look in his eyes, the heat of her hands burning on his skin, Molly said softly, sadly as her thumb brushed along the seam of his lips, “Sherlock, I’ve always wanted this.”

 

Her words enough to light something warm and treacherous, deep in the pit of his chest, he pushed a silken strand of hair behind her ear; and because he couldn’t help himself he said, “Stay here tonight. Please? Sleep in my bed," Each word spoken as though in prayer, an incantation to the Gods, “with me.”

 

Silently she gripped the hem of her nightgown and pulled it over her head, discarding it on the floor; a curtain of long, silky, hair swaying in its aftermath. Her cheeks beautifully flushed, pupils dilated. The sight stealing his breath away.

 

His expression was one of awe as Molly lowered her delicate mouth to his exposed shoulder, brushing her lips against his skin, ferociously tender kisses trailing across his collarbones, her bare breasts lightly grazing his chest.

 

“Yes. Okay,” she breathed gently against shower damp skin, as his arms wrapped possessively around her back, drawing her closer; his deft but unpractised fingertips drawing lines across her smooth flesh, as he looked at her through long, fluttering, inky lashes. Barely contained want making every nerve ending in his body sing, desperate to touch her skin, share her warmth.

 

So different from the last time he felt her body against his, all of those years ago in Italy; he’d been consumed by her, convinced that he was right to dare to hope that he could have his heart’s desire, not knowing it would be the last time she would ever share his bed.

 

Now he knew better than to believe in happy endings for a man like him. She, this, could destroy him as completely as any drug or gun.

 

Her lips against his again derailing his train of thought; her tongue brushing his lips entreatingly, coaxingly, before his lips parted and their tongues touched and then tangled as the kiss deepened. Dissolving helplessly into each other’s touch.

 

The capacity to express himself gone; no ability to put into words the things that he should have told her in that moment. _I love you_ , he wanted to say, _Please, please, don’t do this if you don’t love me_. _I’ve missed you so much that if you take this from me and leave again, I don’t think I’ll survive._

 

His heart pounding in his throat, all he could manage was her name, spoken in reverence, before his mind went mercifully quiet and all he could do was take what he needed so desperately from her, blood roaring like an unsettled ocean in his ears. Incoherent sounds falling from her lips in response to the upward slide of his hands on her ribs.

 

Her breast a delicate weight in his hand between their bodies as her reached for her, his lips becoming more insistent as Molly moaned his name against his mouth. His fingers plunged into her hair, gently guiding their kiss.

 

Their lips touching, Sherlock opened his eyes to find Molly’s own, heavy lidded, and staring back at him; her delicate and precise hand gently palming the slowly swelling erection that lay heavily against his thigh, her arm a comforting and welcome weight, draped loosely across his shoulder. Arching forward into her touch, “Bed,” is all he could manage to murmur against kiss-swollen lips, Molly’s breath becoming quicker, panting, her response a groaned “Yes.”

 

Blazing and desperate eyes watched her stand before him, sliding her underwear over her hips, letting them fall to the floor. Leaning forward, he placed a kiss to her newly exposed skin.

 

Taking his hand in hers, their fingers locked together, she pulled him up from where he sat and pushed the dressing gown that had pooled at his elbows off. His eyes, the colour of the ocean gripped in a storm; close, he swayed as he felt her fingers tug gently at the drawstring of his pyjama bottoms. Both their bodies exposed now, Molly blew out the candles, nudging him backward to lie down on the bed. Taking her hand, Sherlock ran his fingertips over her palm, then kissed it gently. Molly's warm eyes fixed on his as he pulled her down to lie beside him. Sliding an arm around his waist Molly kissed him again, exhaling a soft sigh into his mouth they shared their breath, his palm drifting lazily up and down her back, desire running deep in his hollow bones.

 

In a moon lit bedroom, rain still beating against the windows, the bed springs creaking beneath their weight, they quietly made love, reigniting what had begun between them four years earlier. Sherlock laid himself on top of her, between her legs; one hand resting on the swell of her hip, the other supporting himself on the pillow above her head, her lips mapping every inch of his face and throat, her wrists draped around his neck. The slow slide of their bodies together sending ripples of pleasure across his skin. Her head thrown back, Molly moaned, soft and needy, as he scraped his teeth across her exposed throat. It didn't take long for either of them; Molly biting her lip to keep herself from screaming his name, Sherlock, overcome, in awed silence.

 

Afterward he looked at her, a thought occurring to him that for the first time in years she looked happy; when she kissed him again the world outside of their room faded into non-existence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Disquiet and unhappiness buzzing through him, Sherlock stood at the window of 221B as he watched the object of his desires and dreams pace back and forth on the pavement outside, casting lingering mournful looks at her, willing her to look up at him, before she turned at last to walk away. The dull, hopeful ache in his chest going with her.

 

It had been… awkward that morning, Molly had slipped out of his bedroom while he still slept, impossible to talk before leaving for London with his parents ever present; it seemed obvious to him now that she realised her mistake, regretted what had happened.

 

Shouldering his violin and with his hazy, tired and unfocused eyes closed, the sound of Bach’s Partita number 2 drifted unheard to the street below.

 

Minutes had passed before he heard the first soft steps on the uncarpeted stairs. His heart thumping painfully in his chest as he stilled his bow, his hands shaking too badly now to play anymore, he stood stock still, his back remained turned to the room; pretending that he didn’t want to cry with relief that she had changed her mind and came back.

 

When at last he opened his eyes, he met Molly’s own, dark and beautiful, reflected in the rippled glass, her lingering gaze steadily holding his, her grace and beauty in that moment left him breathless. Something that he didn't understand flashed in her eyes; his spine tingling at the sight, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you play Bach before. It’s beautiful.”

 

“I, um,” he cleared his throat a little, finding it hard to speak or even breathe, his arms lowering, his instrument and bow now hanging at his sides from limp fingers; terrified and relieved at the same time, “I don’t play it often.”

 

The room fell quiet as Molly approached him; Sherlock watched as her reflection hesitated before resting a hand tenderly on his arm, the gentle weight of it almost more than he could bear, “Look,” she started, her voice soft, “I just wanted to check that you were alright. I mean, after last night.”

 

 _You were lonely and needed comfort, I understand,_ he bit his tongue to hold back, the words dying in his throat, “Neither of us were…” he started, not sure how he should continue, “I mean, it’s fine - I’m fine,” he said flatly, his voice unnaturally calm, his mind racing, “really. You don’t have to worry.”

 

“Good,” she swallowed, fingers flexing as though she wanted to reach for...something, “that’s, um, good.”

 

Deafening silence stretched out between them again, Molly’s hand fell from him, “Right, okay, if you’re sure you’re fine then?” When he didn’t answer she gave a sharp decisive nod and turned to leave.

 

He closed his eyes trying to maintain his composure, unwilling to watch her walk away; something unnamed that he didn’t know if he could, or even wanted to contain began to stir in the depths of his soul. Hearing her stop half way to the door, “Sherlock? I, um-” is all he gave her a chance to say before he turned around, dropping his violin and bow to the floor, and crossing the room in three long strides before taking her wrists, his fingers brushing against her pulse, and pulling her to him to kiss her open mouthed, hungrily, and full of shame at his weakness. His body and heart asking of her the things that he himself could never voice. Her fingers tracing the line of his throat to his collarbone, unbuttoning his shirt she kissed his sternum, he lost himself in her touch; he felt blissful oblivion in her gentle kiss, her forgiving arms.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Present day…_

 

So deep in thought, in his memories of Molly, her beautiful heart, her warm and gentle presence in his life, that he hadn't noticed the little Audi pulling up outside of Baker Street.

 

John, sweet, simple, John, had offered to call Mary and stay. He didn't have to say why; worry was written all over John's face, like a warning beacon it flashed _'Caution: Danger Night!'_. It would have been touching were it not so predictable. In the end Sherlock had told him, there was no need, he wasn't alone, hadn't been for months. Breathing a surprised and happy ' _OH!_ ' John had smiled warmly, giving his friend an awkward hug and pat on the back before driving away; Sherlock rolled his eyes knowing that John would call Mycroft before he’d even reached the front door of 221B.

 

Divesting himself of his coat and scarf, he climbed seventeen steps to find Molly, folded like paper in his chair, her knees pulled up to her chest defensively, her arms wrapped around herself. The room in near darkness, she sat by the fire, looking away into some imagined distance, the left side of her face shrouded in shadows, flickers of fire light dancing on her right. Strands of gold and auburn in her hair visible in the warm light. Her body language, the unguarded concern for him in her eyes, telling him just how careful he needed to be. The worry in her delicate features felt like a heavy weight on his chest. Her face immediately lightening when she saw his warm and loving smile.

 

Clarity about his unease with this thing, whatever it was, between them had eluded him for weeks, but now memories that had been scheduled for deletion years ago, saved and instead repressed, brought crystal clarity to him at last. He had made a mistake, imagined her to be the strong one, never recognising that brave and bold Molly Hooper, was just as fragile, just as afraid as he. So fearless in the face of all they had been through, he’d made the stupid, stupid mistake of not seeing that underneath it all were the same vulnerabilities, the same insecurities as his own; she had hidden them so well, most likely for his sake he realised.

 

That ended now. He wouldn't allow another moment to pass without her knowing the truth.

 

His voice deliberately gentle when he finally spoke, “You were wrong,” he said a little shakily, the emotions revisited that day had left him raw, his steps toward her slow but confident; he knew now with certainty he was making the first part of his journey into their future together, he owed this much to her at least – to lay himself bare, to strip away his defences. He would do that. For her, he would do anything, “and you’re never wrong about me, so I didn’t know what that meant or how to react.”

 

“Oh?” Molly said softly, all the air expelled from her lungs abruptly, butterflies doing swan dives in her tummy, “About what?”

 

“You said…You said that I fell in love with you,” he walked to where she sat, his pale eyes seeking out the warmth of hers, “that two weeks ago, I fell in love with you. You were wrong.”

 

Something flickered across her face, her lips tightened then relaxed. He saw the exact moment she decided to trust him; his heart almost beat out of his chest with joy. _My wonderful, brave Molly_ , he thought.

 

“I – I…” raking his fingers through curls dishevelled by the autumn wind, he gracefully fell to his knees before her, bringing them eye to eye; reaching for her hands, “that happened years ago. In Italy. What I realised two weeks ago was that you were in love with me too. I had no idea; I thought that you needed me because you were lonely, that you needed comfort from me, that once someone else came along, a good and decent man, that you would, you’d...” he sighed at his inability to articulate things he had never expressed before, “I was trying to protect myself from you, from the moment when you would realise that I could only ever do you harm and you would leave me. My feelings for you Molly…” his eyes searched hers for understanding, “it will break me, I won’t survive this if you leave me.”

 

“Sherlock,” she blinked slowly, an aching expression of grief clouded her delicate face, then gripped his hands so tightly her knuckles turned white.

 

“I’m terrified Molly,” he told her honestly, slipping their fingers together he leaned down to press a kiss to her wrist, his lips barely parted.

 

“I know,” her throat constricting, her voice soft.

 

“I don’t know how to do this,” ragged and low, his hands trembling in hers, something like fear prickling under his skin.

 

“No one does Sherlock,” his galloping heart beat beginning to calm at her words. Squeezing his hands tighter, “I won’t let you go again.”

 

His face pressed to her hands, she felt his mouth curling up at the corners. She dipped down to kiss the spot on his jaw just below his ear, “Good,” the smile echoed in his voice, her words, her touch beginning to chase away his fears. Tilting his head back, he grazed her face with his fingertips, his voice so young and boyish that it made her heart clench painfully in her chest, “I should have told you years ago, but I – I,” he huffed a small frustrated breath, “I wasn’t brave enough. I thought that, that you weren’t in love with me, but you were, weren’t you? You’ve loved me all along.”

 

Her chest constricted, her breath short when she answered, “Yes.” He leaned forward to rest his forehead against her knees, relieved that he hadn’t imagined it all, that she did love him too, gentle fingers carded through his hair as she spoke, “Then, so much happened between us Sherlock, I didn’t think you loved me, and I just wanted you in my life, I was willing to accept that it would never be as much as I wanted, as long as it was something. That we _were_ something, even if that was just friends.”

 

Raising his eyes to look at hers, his voice soft, “You said that you would give me everything, that you were mine to take,” his soft lips pressed against her finger tips, “I want that. I want everything from you, I’ll take it all if you still want to give it to me,” Molly’s eyes softened, glistening with unshed tears of happiness, “but you must take everything from me. I want to give you my life, my heart, my very soul. They’re yours anyway my angel, I’ve always known, at least deep down, they were safe in your hands, that you had kept my heart with you, safe and saved. Molly, I belong to you,” he was sure now of the truth in the words, “and you belong to me.”

 

Pulling her gently to the floor beside him, he wrapped her in his arms, his cheek resting on the top of her head. He felt her breathing against him, deep and steady, damp against his shirt, and suddenly everything in his world seemed right again. With his hand cupping her cheek he tilted her head back to look at her beautiful smiling face, flecks of gold in her eyes made bright by the flickering flames of the fire. Everything he’d ever desired, everything he’d ever wanted, there in his arms, trust and love in her eyes as she looked at him, and something more too; his faith in their love, in their future, reflected in hers and multiplied a thousand times by the extraordinary woman in his arms.

 

“I love you, Molly,” his voice muffled as he buried his face against her shoulder, the sweep of his long lashes brushed against her neck, his fingers tangled in her long hair, cradling her head in his large hands. Relief spreading through him to have finally uttered the words his courage had failed him to say for so many years.

 

Leaning back to look at him, her hands coming to rest over his chest, the scent of rosin and his aftershave rising from his heated skin, she inhaled and held it in her lungs for as long as she could; his ever changing eyes had settled on sea green, full of adoration and kindness, and as Molly brushed a delinquent chocolate curl back from his face, her eyes damp with filmy tears, she rasped, “I love you too.”

 

His eyes closed, his body relaxed, his fingers tightened around her waist; the corners of his mouth quirking up into a smile that flushed his cheeks and made his eyes gentle and fond. Her lips met his in a lingering and loving kiss, their noses brushing, fingers caressing, hearts pounding. When it ended Molly grinned from ear to ear, “You know Mycroft had the roads closed that night just to keep us under the same roof, when I drove back to London the next morning there wasn’t a puddle in sight.”

 

Sighing with fake exasperation and impatience with his brother, the corner of his mouth quirking up, his eyes crinkling trying to suppress his smile, “I suspected as much. Interfering busy body.”

 

“We may owe him a thank you, Sherlock, not a scolding,” she said playfully and snuggled in closer letting her head fall back against his shoulder, her body a welcome weight against his. When his hold on her tightened, a small hum of pleasure escaped her curving lips as her fingers idled on his.

 

He grinned, the beautiful boyish one he saved just for Molly; she could hear the smile in his voice and when she turned at him to look, he drew her close again, “Well yes, that is true, but don’t ever tell him I said so. He’s insufferable as it is.”

 

A happy and contented silence fell over them, only the cracking fire disturbing the quiet; and as they sat there basking in each other’s nearness he thought of the man he had been just four years ago, of the journeys they had made, sometimes together, sometimes apart, of the man he was now – so far removed from who he had been all those years ago in Italy, of how far they had come in just three short months, of the happiness he felt at the prospect of the journey ahead of them now. He thought of the life they would have together, of the ring he had bought for her a week ago – knowing that it was too soon to offer it to her, but that the right time wouldn’t be far away, he thought of how brave and gentle Molly Hooper had taken the man that he was, erased the darkness that had pained him for so much of his life, and created him anew.

 

She was his centre, his equilibrium, her love a bright and shining beacon in the stormy seas of his humours and disposition. Lowering his head, he kissed her again, Molly was pliant and willing in his hands – she gave herself wholeheartedly to him, and in turn she would be cherished and adored.

 

There were things that needed to be said, difficult conversations about their mistakes and failures, but that could wait for now. Tonight there would be sanctuary in each other’s arms and they would be happy and find peace, knowing that this was exactly where they were meant to be; tonight they would kiss, and caress, and touch by the fire side until they felt their shaky legs were strong enough to stand, and then they would go to bed and make love and know that it was exactly that, love.

 

And tomorrow…? Tomorrow, the life that was always meant to be, the one where they were happy and grateful to be together, where they woke each day to each other’s smiles and loving touch, where they lived every day joyfully and died in each other’s arms still madly, deeply, in love, aged one hundred and seventeen; _that life_ , would be theirs, just waiting to for them to begin.

 


	13. Complete me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well they say better late than never...
> 
> Sorry it's taken so long - sometimes life gets in the way of fun!
> 
> Thanks again are due to the wonderful, the amazing MaybeItsJustMyType, she held my hand through this little coda and it's infinitely better for having her input, if you like it at all that will be mostly down to her. Thank you K xx
> 
> This little story shows a glimpse of life for my darling Sherlock and Molly, set around five years after the end of the last chapter, it was inspired by a question posed by Steven Moffat, which I have to paraphrase as I can't find the original quote:
> 
> If all of the criminals in London were so bloody boring, what was so interesting in Sussex that Sherlock felt compelled to retire there, and what the hell was her name?
> 
> For the last time, dear reader, thank you for your support and for joining me on the ride...

 

 

* * *

 

 

It would have been foolish of him to think that his life with Molly would always stay the same, never changing. He was an intelligent man after all, what he didn’t know for sure he could deduce, and since he had begun a relationship with his wife, he had also developed the ability to intuit.

 

No, he knew their life _could_ change, but it was almost impossible for him to believe that it had. In truth he’d feared it, the perfect idyll of their married life, disrupted by some unknown force; he pressed his head against Grace’s and thought about how foolish that fear had been.

 

Long fair lashes fluttered on rosy cheeks when Sherlock’s fingertips brushed a strand of honey blonde, spun silk hair away from her forehead as she stirred sleepily in his arms. Letting out a shallow little breath, he wondered how this had happened to him, how it was possible to be so completely in love, to want her near all of the time. He struggled to put a name to his feelings since almost the first moment they’d met, and had wondered about hers; that had all changed earlier that day when he left for Sussex, when he’d kissed her head and said goodbye. She had said to him words that had been shocking in their simplicity and power.

 

Thoughts had sped and crashed around his mind until at last they settled, he knew that no matter how much he loved his life here in London with Molly it was changing and they were powerless to stop it.

 

Kissing her temple, his arms tightened around her; one large hand cradling the fine blonde hair that tickled his nose every time she shifted, her ear pressed against the steady beat of his heart, her breathing soft and even in her sleep. He wrapped the blanket that usually lived on the back of what would always be John’s chair around them both as they dozed in his fireside armchair; Sherlock holding her protectively in his arms, where she fitted so perfectly, as though she were precious and delicate glass that had been shaped by fire.

 

She was so beautiful. Sapphire blue eyes, long elegant musicians fingers that she had inherited from her mother –a concert pianist - Grace was intensely brilliant, sharp and quick witted, wildly independent, she was guarded - revealing only what she wanted the world to see - learned behaviour, Sherlock knew, her father had been MI6 after all.

 

And, _oh_ , how perfectly chosen her name; she was graceful and precise in her every action.

 

Ever careful with his heart, he had never believed in love at first sight, never believed that it was possible; even the intense love he had felt for Molly had been a slow burn, everything revealed between them gradually, piece by piece, before it became an all-consuming and purifying blaze. This though, had been instant and unexpected – one moment he had been blissfully happy in his life, and the next, it was incomplete because she wasn’t in it. At their first meeting, the spark of recognition between them so strong it took his breath away - two kindred spirits, _We are the same_ , it said. In that very first moment she had taken a piece of his heart so unknown to him, the realisation of its existence had been terrifying and joyous all at once.

 

He had never been more certain of anything in his life, it was simple and clear cut. Ever intuitive, he suspected that his wife already knew the things it had taken him until today to realise, even so he would tell her – and add one thing to it.

 

Something that he had always known he should say, but hadn’t.

 

“Bad dreams?” Molly whispered from the doorway, her face fond and gentle as she came to sit on the arm of his chair, weary from a long day at work.

 

“No, I just wanted her with me,” his voice thick and honeyed from sleep, blue-grey puppy dog eyes flashed at her from beneath long lashes in an attempt to charm his wife, who smiled at him in a reflexive response. His return smile full of happiness, boyish and bright – the smile that only Molly had ever inspired in him. It had been so long since he first smiled at her that way all those years ago in Italy, and yet her heart still skipped a beat. Every. Single. Time.

 

“So,” Molly, still in her coat gently eased herself into the armchair to join them under the blanket, first placing a loving kiss just under her husband’s ear, Sherlock humming in response; she and her husband now holding the small child that was curled against his chest. Running her fingers first through Sherlock’s hair and then through Grace’s, she beamed down at the tiny girl’s peacefully sleeping face, “What did she do this time to trick you into letting her stay up late?” Her voiced amused, she twisted into the blanket and rested her arm over them both, “Bat her eyelashes? Give you her best crooked grin? I bet she was all dimples and adorable smiles.” Molly teased, sighing, her voice edged with feigned exasperation, “Think of all the time we’d have saved if only I’d known to exploit your weakness for girls with a flair for finger painting and a love of Winnie the Pooh.”

 

“She didn’t do anything,” Sherlock rumbled, a little half smile on his lips, “well, nothing deliberate.”

 

“I know that tone Sherlock Holmes, out with it,” her voice light and mischievous, her head tilting to one side.

 

“She, ah, well this morning, I asked Mrs Hudson to sit with her until one of us came home, and,” his throat constricted, he held the sleeping bundle tighter in the crook of his arm, one hand on her back to hold her in place. _Hell_ , why was this so hard to say, “When I kissed her goodbye, she said,” he blew out a deep breath, “I love you, Daddy.”

 

After, she’d skipped away into Nana Martha’s arms without even noticing what she had said, or the astonished look on Sherlock’s face as he stared at her in disbelief – his mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

 

Molly’s eyes widened, her mouth forming a silent ‘O’.

 

They had thought of Grace as theirs, was it really so surprising that slowly she had begun to think of them as hers? Sherlock had been fascinated by her from the moment they had met. Mycroft asking him to examine the scene when one of his agents, along with his wife, had been murdered; the child had been unharmed, asleep when the assassin struck. He’d solved the case in less than an hour, a jealous lover seeking her revenge, the little girl, not yet three years old, and with no living relatives to claim her, had been taken away and placed into care.

 

He’d seen it in the way she watched him, the way she observed her surroundings, the glint of fierce intelligence in her eyes – her potential, her spirit would wither and die were she to be shunted from facility to facility while the courts took years to decided her fate. Shouldering his violin the minute he’d returned to Baker Street, clearly troubled, Bach had resonated through the air of their flat until almost three in the morning, when finally he’d gone to Molly to tell her about Grace, to ask her if, perhaps, they could somehow give the child a home.

 

And _of course_ she had said yes.

 

Sherlock had left in the dead of night to rouse his brother and to have Grace released into his and Molly’s care as soon as she woke the next morning. Immediately she had become the centre of their extended family’s universe, adoring uncles and aunts, doting grandparents – Violet Holmes making a tearful confession to Molly at their first meeting that the little girl was so very like her own children at that age, curious and bright, and in needing a loving hand to provide guidance; Violet then confiding that Sherlock had told her he knew the child was special, but that with the love of a mother like Molly, Grace could be _remarkable_.

 

Since the moment Grace had come to live with them almost a year ago, they were simply ‘Lock and ‘Olly, she’d just accepted them for who they were without a moment’s hesitation; old enough to know that they weren’t her parents, but thank God young enough not to realise what had happened. Even though she was orphaned now, she’d had a mother and father, albeit absent since she was just a few months old, who had left her to be raised by a succession of governesses and nannies, their life too dangerous to include a child. If Molly were honest with herself, she wasn’t surprised that Gracie had finally said it; she and Sherlock were cut from the same cloth – two parts of an unformed whole, Molly had seen it the first time she laid eyes on the little girl, she hung on Sherlock’s every word, soaking up everything that he wanted to teach her like a sponge - dismantling every appliance in the flat within days of arriving to live with them only to watch mesmerised as Sherlock put everything back together again, she pined for him when he went away on a case, she imitated his mannerisms and – less endearingly – his moods, shadowed him everywhere he went, he was her hero, the knight in shining armour who had given her a home, and a family. Like so many before her, the child had been enraptured by Sherlock’s charms; a Daddy’s girl from the moment she had entered his thrall. That Gracie loved Sherlock was no surprise, but that Sherlock had given himself so wholeheartedly and without reservation had caught her by surprise, if only just a little, though it shouldn’t have, she knew - Sherlock for all his brash behaviour was always so gentle with children.

 

Within days of her arrival at 221B, it was obvious what Gracie was – _theirs_ ; an unspoken vow made, in the beat of a heart. Without Gracie ever even trying, they’d both fallen madly in love with her.

 

“Sherlock,” Molly brushed her thumb over his cheek and pressed forward to softy kiss his lips, her hushed words said with a smile, “you can’t be surprised?”

 

“No,” Sherlock looked at her, his eyes shining as Grace burrowed into his chest, her small hand curled into his shirt; he unconsciously counted the tiny breaths that passed her pink lips. “I’ve been thinking about your suggestion, that we make this a permanent arrangement,” he reached out and brushed his fingers tenderly over the small swell of Molly’s tummy, his expression serious; Sherlock’s splayed fingers gently pushing under the hem of her shirt to lay over the expanse of her skin, his large hand protective of the new life growing beneath it as Molly clasped his hand tightly beneath hers, “that we four become a family.”

 

“Darling,” said his wife affectionately, “that is already what we are.”

 

“I know, but I – I want her to feel safe, that no one can take her away from us, we should be her parents,” he said softly, one arm around his daughter watching her small face, the other wrapped around his wife, taking a deep breath, his brows knitted together; his fears warring with his excitement for his new family as he said to Molly, “even though I really don’t have the slightest clue about how to do any of this.”

 

Though unspoken between them, Molly knew that the only thing that had prevented a formal adoption before now was Sherlock’s unfounded worry that he couldn’t possibly be what was best for her. Grace’s words had finally given him the courage, it seemed.

 

Leaning forward to kiss his lips softly, her fingers intertwined with his as she pressed their joined hands against her tummy, “You’re already doing it Sherlock.”

 

A look of sheer happiness flashed across his face without his knowledge or permission, as he breathed a soft, surprised, “ _Oh,_ ” through parted lips, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth; his eyes bright with the kind of excitement that used to be reserved just for cases.

 

Both their heads turned to look at the little girl as she made a small noise, her thumb tucked under her lip, rubbing her eyes as she stirred.

 

“’Olly?” the little girl asked sleepily, eyes heavy lidded and eyelashes fluttering to fight the sleep that would otherwise take her, looking for Molly. Turning in Sherlock’s arms, blinking with dewy, sleep heavy eyes she gave Molly a wide and happy grin, spilling out of her father’s hold, she threw her arms around Molly, whispering a little too loudly to her mum’s tummy, “Hello bump,” then to Molly, “I missed you ‘Olly.”

 

“I missed you too sweetheart,” she brushed her fingers over the child’s face, before gathering her little girl into her arms, her cherry print pyjamas twisted and bunched up as Grace wiggled into Molly’s side, pressing a kiss to the child’s small face, her eyes bright and happy, “Gracie, come on, it’s time to go to bed?”

 

“Aww, but I want to stay here with you,” she protested, far too sleepy to put up a real fight. As Sherlock stood and wrapped her securely in his arms, her head already lolling onto his shoulder, she blinked owlishly and said, “Love you, ‘Olly.”

 

“Love you too, sweetie,” Molly replied, then said to her husband, “When you come down, you can tell me where you and Mycroft have been all day,” her fingers brushing gently over his lips.

 

“Told you,” his chest swelling with a deep breath, “a case.”

 

“A case?” Raising an eyebrow, her expression rapt.

 

Leaning forward, careful not to disturb the already dozing child, Sherlock pressed a kiss against his wife’s hair; when he spoke his words were soft, “In the Sussex Downs. I’ll tell you everything once she’s settled.”

 

As he turned to carry Grace to bed he stopped in the doorway of their sitting room, suddenly realising that there was something else that he had meant to tell her. Looking back over his shoulder as his pregnant wife slipped out of her coat and back under the blanket, he held the child in his arms ever closer when an image of he and Molly played out before his eyes; the cottage in Sussex, summer sun high in the sky, his wife walking through the wild flower fields that surrounded their soon to be home, their small son in her arms, their daughter pulling stems of daisies and buttercups – a bouquet for her mother – as he trailed lazily behind them, Molly turning to reward him with a beautiful smile.

 

“Molly?” he said gently.

 

“Hmm?” she replied as she pulled the blanket around her shoulders, sighing as her head came to rest on the back of the armchair.

 

His jaw tightened, his cheek twitched as he fought to say the right words, “Thank you.”

 

“What for?” she smiled curiously at him.

 

He blew out a small breath, “For saving me,” he said.

 

For a moment she didn’t understand, but then realising what he meant, “We saved each other, Sherlock,” her face loving and warm as she watched his chest contract in a deep steadying breath.

 

His eyes met hers and blinked once as he nodded his head in acknowledgement, disappearing up the stairs as he carried their daughter off to bed.


End file.
